


Oxycodone Days

by Naja_Nivea



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Pre movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:53:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naja_Nivea/pseuds/Naja_Nivea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony finds a hole in Hawkeye's armor, while the latter's defenses are down and decides to pick until he uncovers the wound. The problem is he wasn't prepared for the gore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is cross posted on FF(dot)net

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING!

Oxycodone Days:

Part 1

Six months after the incident in New York, and Stark happily strolled through is partially repaired tower. Today was note worthy in that it was a Saturday and he wasn't hungover and that he had a full house. For once, Agents Barton and Romanov had decided to stay with him, rather than at the SHIELD base. It was a bit odd for them to do so but whatever. He suspected it had more to do with the fact that they came back from their last mission with her sporting a busted collar bone and dislocated shoulder and he had a shrapnel wound to the side, broken ribs, and a bum knee.

At first, he had had brilliant theories that living with two assassins would be like Mr. and Mrs. Smith, though Barton had nothing on Brad Pitt. Turned out, it was more like living with a live wire and a ghost. Romanov was there more often and tended to be more outgoing with the rest of the team than Barton but she was ill tempered, cold, rude, and occasionally cruel. Barton on the other hand seemed to have no desire to interact with anyone other than Romanov and generally spent most of his time there eating, sleeping, or prepping weapons. Half the time Tony didn't even know if he was there or not. Frankly it sort of creeped him out.

He actually still remembered what Coulson had said about Barton, when they had mentioned him on the Helicarrier with the comment that Romanov almost never deployed without him. Tony had made some glib comment about him being the exception and Phil and Natasha had snickered. "Just because you didn't see him, doesn't mean he wasn't there, Stark." Coulson had joked. It hadn't made much sense till he actually met the sniper. It made more sense after he went back and looked at some "procured" SHEILD tapes of his expo, Senate hearing, and trip to Monaco. The Expo tape had been the most disturbing. It had been grainy, dark and shot from at least 800-900 meters away. Tony had had Jarvis retrace the angle and it would have had to have been shot from the interior rafters of the tower next door. Natasha had glibly pointed out that it had been shot on a camera mounted on Clint's sniper rifle, and Barton had been all for "taking out the show boating asshat." The thought that he could have died and never had a clue the shot coming, had been a little unsettling.

Today seemed to be an average morning for them, he had made her crepes and hard boiled eggs with caviar, because they were clearly sleeping together. What dude made crepes for a woman unless he was thanking her for letting him bang her? Today's crepes were nutella and strawberry with homemade whip cream. They looked so good but Tony knew better than to ask, the way someone not fucking Clint Barton got fed around him was to eat out of the trash. Not that Tony had done that, the sink didn't count as the trash. He supposed that wasn't completely true, he had made pancakes for Pepper and Jane once, but none of the men had been served.

It was one of the weird quirks he had noticed about the marksman, he liked to make women happy. Maybe Mommy beat him as a little boy, who knows. What he found more interesting was that spy lady was shoveling food down her gullet like there was no tomorrow and he was picking at toast even though that stuff smelled heavenly. In fact, the man looked almost green. Tony slid in beside him, the same time Bruce came in, scurrying around the edges of the room as usual.

"So what's the matter there, Barton, did Natasha get you pregnant?" he teased. Most sane people wouldn't taunt either of them, but it was tough to find the Black Widow frightening when she was wearing a tank top (no bra Yeah!), shorts, and a worn out flannel shirt that clearly belonged to Barton, her wounded arm still in a sling. Another point for the side that they were sleeping together. Male and female friends do not share clothes. The intimidation factor of Hawkeye was even more reduced with his long sleeve Henley, old Ft. Benning t-shirt, and Eeyore pajama pants, which was again another point. Why would a badass like Barton wear Winnie the Pooh jammies, unless his squeeze bought them for him.

His answer was a middle finger from both of them. "You know you'll feel better if you eat something," Natasha followed in between bites. That woman could eat. Tony watched her reach up and run her hands through his shower damp hair, ending with her hand on the back of his neck, rubbing her thumb behind his ear. She was so different now then she was when they had first met. Then she had been playing a part and later had been on a mission. This softer side of her was something new and kind of sexy, not that he would cheat on Pepper unless Natasha started it.

When they had gotten to the Helicarrier for that first mission, he had asked Coulson why she and everyone were so concerned about this Agent Barton guy. Coulson had said something about Barton's skill and knowledge, both of which Tony had discounted as exaggeration. No one could fire an arrow into an electrical socket and blow up a ship, that just wasn't possible. Of course until said agent actually did it. But when Phil got to why Natasha cared so much, he remembered the Agent looking away and saying, "he's her valium, a drug more precious than sleep." It had made zero sense to him at the time but now he understood a little bit more. Around him, she could relax and stop looking over her shoulder because she knew he had her back. She may have said she didn't love him but she clearly trusted him and Tony guessed that for people like them trust was more important than love. But then again anytime he brought up her feelings for her partner, it tended to read as she doth protest too much.

"I am eating," he grumbled, looking down at his plate as Steve came in from his morning run.

"No, you are shredding your toast into oblivion but you aren't eating any of it," she countered and finally pushed her plate away after downing 3 crepes, 2 eggs, and 3 pieces of bacon. She gave Bruce a small smile and a nod, telling him he could have the rest, which he jumped on.

"Are you sick, Agent Barton?" Banner asked between bites, almost purring in contentment at the taste.

"No, I'm fine," he answered, continuing to destroy his toast.

"You are not fine," Romanov countered, shoving his plate away.

"I'm not sick," he emphasized.

"You look sick," Tony commented, pouring a large cup of coffee, more important than actual breakfast.

Before Clint could counter, Bruce chimed in, "you do look a bit unwell. Is your wound getting infected?"

"No, it's nothing like that. I'll be fine in a few hours."

"Are you sure, I can take a look at it if you need me to."

"No, don't worry about it. It's all Rasputin, over here's fault," Barton pointed at Natasha and her eyes narrowed to a glare.

"Name calling, really, that's how you want to play this?" She questioned then continued, "I made GI Joe take his pain meds last night so I could get a break from his tossing and turning."

"GI Joe was the best you could come up with? And if my tossing and turning bothers you, sleep in your own bed."

"I'll sleep wherever I damn well please, maybe tonight in Steve's room."

"I'm sorry, can your repeat that, I don't speak whore," he snarked and Tony was sure he was a dead man but all she did was shoot back.

"Tool,"

"Commie"

"Circus Freak!"

That one got a grin from him, which apparently meant he had lost some contest that no one other than them knew they were having. "Whatever, Natashen'ka." Tony knew that one, it was a very endearing diminutive of her name, the Russian equivalent of calling her sweetheart. Of course that was not nearly as interesting as the fact that they had both just openly admitted they shared a bed.

"Anyway, I got tired of seeing him laying there tense as a bored and in pain so I made him take the pain meds the doctors gave him. He slept like a baby, six whole hours," she crowed over him. Six hours was more like a nap than a good night's sleep to Tony, at least when he was in one of his down phases.

"Yes and I woke up from that six hour stretch barely making it to the bathroom in time to not puke all over the bed and still feel like I could hurl on command."

"At least you weren't hurting," defended herself.

"Have you ever tried vomiting with broken rib and a frag wound in your side?" he questioned her and Tony lost his appetite.

"What did they give you?" Banner asked quietly, unobtrusively, like he always did. She handed him a pill bottle and he read the label, "Reprexain, hydrocodone and ibuprofen. They gave you the good stuff," he smiled. "It's probably the codeine; a lot of people have a sensitivity to it that makes them nauseous when they take it. The ibuprofen probably made it worse because it's pretty hard on your stomach at the best of times. I can write you a prescription for an anti emetic so you can still take them," Bruce offered but Clint shook his head no.

"They make me too groggy," he defended.

"This from the guy that eats Halcion like its candy," Tony questioned.

"Only on flights longer than 10 hours and before missions where I know I won't be able to sleep."

"Or we can switch you to Oxycodone. It usually doesn't have the nausea side effect as frequently as codeine based drugs do. It will make you feel more 'high,' though," Banner brought the topic back on track to helping Clint.

"Or I could just suck it up," he offered but Natasha cut him off.

"Switch it please, Bruce. I am not going to spend one minute longer than I have to seeing you in this much pain." There went that "love" thing again. Women did not tend to be that concerned for people's comfort unless there was a little something, something going on. "Because you have the personality of a badger with dental problems when you're wounded and I don't want to deal with it," she finished. OK, maybe it wasn't love. He filed it away for later and left to go work on some plans.

When he came back later, it was right around noon and Clint was baking, while Natasha dozed on the couch just off the kitchen. Tony had learned that the only time either of them ever slept out in the open like this was if the other was around. That was trust he supposed.

Tony inspected the multitude of pots and mixing bowls Clint had around and tried to guess what in the world he could be making as he limped around the kitchen. The limp was much less pronounced than earlier though, so he assumed that Bruce's drug change had helped. Though there was no sign of loopiness, that is usually caused by Oxycodone. Barton was so damn controlled all the time, he wondered what the guy would be like completely smashed. He had never seen him drink more than a single shot of vodka after a mission with Natasha, always with both of them saying a quick 'Za Vas' or 'to you' before downing it. Now Romanov, that girl could drink. "What ya' makin' there Robin Hood?"

"Caramel popcorn, for this afternoon," he stirred the homemade caramel bubbling on the stove, "brownies for dessert, and chicken Kiev with potato rolls and kale, carrot, and green bean salad for dinner," he answered, moving around the kitchen like a pro.

"Let me guess, you only made enough for you and spider woman?" Clint gave him a look that said, 'd'uh.' "Do you have any idea how rude it is to only make enough for 2 people when there are 5 of us here?" he asked, his mouth already watering at the sight of the chicken breasts he was butterflying with the precision of a master chef. This time his look was more, 'do you have any idea how little I care if you think I am rude.' "So if I have sex with you, will you cook me wonderful food too?" Tony asked as Pepper walked in, invited by the smell of the caramel. She did have a sweet tooth.

"We aren't lovers, Stark," Clint defended, this time without looking up.

"Your mouth says no but everything else about you 2 says yes." He taunted.

"Hello, Pepper," he ignored Tony and greeted his girlfriend, as he poured the caramel over a large bowl of popcorn and began to toss it in the air and recatch it without missing a single piece. He then gave it a slight dusting of salt and tossed again, holding the bowl out to her, "would you like to try?" he flashed her a smile, charming and boyish that made his eyes sparkle and Tony felt sick at the lie. Barton's eyes didn't sparkle, they were dead like a cipher.

"This is wonderful, salty and sweet. It's delicious. Phil was right, you are an amazing cook." Pepper beamed at him, making Tony's dislike of the guy go even higher. Wait, did she just say he would cook for Coulson? Why would he cook for Coulsson and not for the rest of them? He might have gotten angry but again, it's hard to really be angry with a guy wearing cartoon pajamas.

"Thank you," he smiled shyly, mimicking the "awe shucks" vibe the Steve gave off. Now that Tony knew him better he was better at picking up when either he or Natasha were acting and he found it disturbing how often they seemed to act.

"Where did you learn to cook, if you don't mind me asking?" Pepper returned his smile and Tony reminded himself that he was better looking, richer, smarter, and for once actually nicer than the other man.

"In Bogata." He answered simply as he sprinkled what looked like sea salt on the top of his brownies and slid them into the oven. Tony was beginning to think maybe he was a little loopy. Hawkeye did not talk this much to anyone except Natasha.

"Really, why were you in Colombia?" she asked, tucking her hair behind her ear. It must have been bugging her because she was most certainly not flirting with SHIELD's one-man-automatic-dictator-removal-machine.

"Tash and I were down there for a mission to take down some drug and weapons traffickers. She posed as an heiress to get close to the cartel and I needed someplace close by where I had access to the hotel. The best they could get me was assistant chef so I had a seven days crash course on how to work the line in a 5 star hotel restaurant and faked the rest when I got there. I spent 3 months getting yelled at in Spanish and sweating my ass off in the back of a kitchen, while she was wined and dined by drug lords. Sometimes I wish I was the one with the tits, then I wouldn't get all the crap jobs." She giggled at him and Tony ground his teeth. He loved how Barton skipped over the fact that they probably killed the entire cartel, their family, and maybe even the kitchen staff. The two of them seemed to have like zero concept of morality. Oh, and this level of talkativeness meant he clearly was high.

"I see, well a useful skill to be sure," she giggled and Tony suddenly felt like picking a fight with his 'teammate' just to make a point. If he was stoned, Tony might stand a chance without the suit.

"Tasha and I were going to watch a movie, if you would like to join us, Pepper. Today is a relaxing day, a rare treat for us."

"A relaxing day?" Tony questioned, wondering if Clint was high enough he could get some black mail material.

"Yup, we sit around and don't do anything, eat what want, sleep when we want, and don't bother putting on real pants." He grinned. Well that explained the goofy attire.

"What are you watching?" Pepper asked, then looked over at Tony's displeased expression. "I probably should be working, I'm sorry."

Tony instantly felt guilty that she misread his jealousy for anger at her. "No, Pepper, let's join them. I could use a break." She smiled at him and his heart melted. "So what was the flick?"

"Ringu," Clint smirked as he took drinks and popcorn out to TV room off the kitchen. Natasha was still sleeping soundly, which surprised the shit out of Tony.

"I'm shocked she is still out. I figured she would have woken up when we walked in?" he asked as Clint found the movie and got it ready. He also pulled out a blanket and draped it over her. It was February in New York and it was cold.

"Why, you aren't a threat to her?" he asked as he settled down beside her, leaving the other couch for Tony and Pepper.

"Yeah but she seems like she wouldn't want us to see her sleeping out here and would wake up and be all ninja like on us."

"She knows she doesn't have to," Tony lifted an eyebrow in question. "She knows I wouldn't let anyone other than a friendly get within range of her." He answered simply. "And besides, she hasn't been asleep since you got out here"

Tony looked over and noticed her eyes were now opened and locked on his. He swallowed at the silent message that if he meant her any harm, Clint would kill him. "Your own personal guard dog?" he teased her.

"More like a guard hawk," she answered and moved to curl against Barton's side, her head resting against his chest. "And it goes both ways. You even breath too aggressively around him, when he is down and I will end you painfully." She smiled and it was not a kind smile.

"I see," he swallowed, wondering again how either of them could be counted as a hero in any sense of the word. "Well, movie?" He leaned back as Pepper leaned in.

"They are so cute, aren't they? I'm glad I didn't end up fixing her up with Happy." Tony barely managed to cover the snort that wanted out at the thought of his guileless chauffeur with the Black Widow. No, those two deserved each other. Two more fucked up and broken people he had never seen and he grew up rich so he knew fucked up. But regardless of their different pasts, they seemed to be broken the same way; a deep down, soul level damage that warped and twisted them into something that could only play at normal. For her it showed as paranoia and complete lack of trust in almost everything. Barton on the other hand was anti social and dissociative to the extreme. And according to their psych profiles both of them were classic examples of Schizoid personality disorder.

Once the movie started Tony noticed 2 things, one it was a good movie and 2 Natasha clearly did not like ghost movies. More than once, between stuffing her face with popcorn and strong, black tea, she jumped, hid under her covers, or hid against Clint's chest in the scary parts.

"Are you afraid of ghosts, Natasha?" Pepper asked politely. Tony knew she was secretly a huge horror movie fiend. It seemed like Barton was too.

"Yes, I am. I cannot stand ghosts or ghost movies and he loves them." She pouted and Clint just smiled.

When the movie finished, she crowed,"just for that, blondie, we're watching the Abyss next," smiling gleefully and programming the movie in.

He groaned, "do we have to? Wouldn't Aliens be better? You like Michael Biehn."

"No, I want The Abyss."

"Oh that is a great movie," Bruce settled himself in a chair to watch, a good distance from Romanov, who still occasionally seemed wary of him. "Steve, you should watch it, it's a classic Sci-Fi masterpiece."

The super soldier folded himself into a chair and watched the screen, even as Natasha sprawled out with her head in Clint's lap, no less, after an aggressive stare down that resulted in Clint taking another dose of his new pain meds. Those two were totally sleeping together, at least he was pretty sure, maybe. At least Pepper curled against him.

"It is not a great movie, it is a creepy, disturbing, annoying movie that she likes to watch just to bother me."

"Sort of like you and your ghost movies?" she taunted, gently massaging his sore thigh muscles above the brace.

"Ghost movies are a sub genre of horror. Movies about being in a submarine and drowning are not a genre, plus you only watch this one."

"Oh my god, you're claustrophobic, aren't you Agent Barton?" Tony questioned, finally finding a chink in Hawkeye's armor.

"I am not claustrophobic," he stated calmly and the movie started.

Tony kept a close eye on him as the movie progressed, but the man was as stone faced as ever until a scenes where the people started drowning. "You're afraid of water?"

"I'm not afraid of water," he defended, while shying away from the screen.

"Yes you are, you totally are," Tony crowed. "See Bruce, he can't even look at the screen."

"I'm not afraid of water," he defended again, "I just don't care for the idea of drowning."

"No one cares for the idea of drowning but no one but you are shying away from the screen." Tony stopped the move, "so what was it, your daddy nearly drown you or did you get picked on in high school." Natasha looked like she was about to jump up and kill him for some reason. Ok, he would have to be careful not to trip her protective instinct towards her partner.

"Sorry, you don't have clearance for that intel because it's classified as none of your goddamn business," Clint snapped, just fueling Tony's curiosity but he pulled back, deciding to bide his time, restarting the movie.

As the sub began to fill with water, it got to a point where he actually closed his eyes rather than look at it and Tony pounced, "So it's not all water, it's water in an enclosed space that is bothering you. But I've seen you swim, what could it be?" He tapped his glass of bourbon against the corner of the arc reactor in his chest.

"Will you please just leave it alone, Stark," Barton commented, finally opening his eyes, if he wasn't mistaken they looked a bit glassy.

"No, because I find it interesting, and I can't ever ignore something I find interesting. You're willingly stand on the corner of buildings with no safety gear, hundreds of feet in the air, and fire arrows at aliens with technology you can't begin to understand without a second thought. Yet you can't watch a movie about a submarine without averting your eyes. So enclosed water, where you on a sub that sank?"

"All subs sink, that's their point," he countered, playing with Natasha's hair.

"He said he was afraid of drowning, not being in water," Bruce piped in, as he sank back down after stealing some of the popcorn. Man, that stuff looked good. "A subtle yet important distinction, I think."

"I never said I was afraid. I said I didn't like the idea of it." Barton defended

"Yes, but in SHIELD speak that is like saying you are terrified." Tony continued.

"He isn't really phobic about it anymore," Romanov betrayed as she practically purred under Barton's fingers.

"Et tu, Brute?" he complained but continued to pet her hair.

"Life's a bitch, Barton, and so am I." she gloated.

"Phobic about drowning, huh, but not scared of water? Why would someone be afraid of drowning on dry land?"

"Water boarding," Banner threw in as he caught a piece of caramel popcorn in his mouth. Stark couldn't help but notice how Barton's face went from mildly annoyed to blank, the closest thing to a tell the assassin had.

"So you are phobic about water-boarding?" It made sense, he had read the man's file. He had served in both Afghanistan and Iraq, when he was still in the Army, before SHEILD took a circus criminal turned army man and made a master assassin.

"I hate to interrupt, but what is water boarding?" Steve asked politely.

"It's an intimidation technique," Clint started when Natasha cut in.

"Torture, it's a torture technique. Call it what it is," she corrected, taking hold of one of his hand and lacing their fingers together, tucking it under her chin.

"Ok, a torture technique where you put a cloth over someone's face and pour water on it to mimic drowning," Barton finished and Steve nodded.

"Never sounded that bad to me, not like getting hit by shrapnel trying to enter your heart," Tony commented, trying to elicit sympathy from Pepper or Natasha, both ignored it. "Besides, I read your file, you were Special Forces, right?" Clint nodded in the affirmative. "You should have been taught in SERE training how to handle it."

"They do teach you about it in SERE, but there is a huge difference between having it done to you, while your squad is around and the instructor is walking your through what is happening, and being captured, having your feet caned, strapped upside down on a table, blindfolded and having it done while a bunch Afghanis yell at you in Pashto.

"Still doesn't sound that bad," Tony grumbled.

"Have you ever been water boarded, Stark," Clint asked.

"No, because I had the luxury of brains, and money, and looks so I didn't join the military." Tony prevaricated. What had been done to him was more like a swirly than what had obviously been done to Barton.

"Fine, so shut the fuck up about it," Barton finally snapped, apparently Tony had hit a nerve.

Tony wanted the whole story and was not about to stop now. "Come on, you can't tell us just that much and nothing else, besides, we all have high enough SHIELD clearance to know what happened." Barton remained unmoved. "And this is how you build team spirit and friendship and you are the worst of the team players," he tried, turning to Steve. "Isn't that right Captain?"

"If he doesn't want to tell us, you shouldn't force him." Steve tried but Tony clearly wasn't listening.

"How long were you there?"

"Oh for the love of, just tell him, Clint, or we'll never get any peace and quiet. Either that or I'm going to garrote him. He is ruining my relaxation day!" The Black Widow roused, annoyed because Barton had stopped stroking her hair.

"Then strangle the mother fucker for all I care." He would defend Iron Man with his life but Tony Stark, not so much. That pathological ability to compartmentalize had to be a form of mental illness, it just had to be. How exactly either of those two lunatics made it into the Avengers when he had been considered too unstable, he would never understand.

"I know, but he does have a point, these people are our new team and you should start tolerating them. Besides, I bet they would like to hear how Squawks saved your life." She reasoned with him but he still seemed to waiver. Apparently his trust issues had trust issues, just like his partner. "If you tell them, I'll do whatever you want," she finished, looking him in the eye.

"Anything?"

"You bake some of those brownies with the sea salt in them?" he nodded 'yes' "You got deal," she let go of his hand and held her unwounded hand out.

"You drive a hard bargain, Natashen'ka, but deal," he shook it and they went back to holding hands. "Fine, so Fury and Squawks sent me to observe a camp on the Pakistan Afghanistan boarder that was known for human trafficking."

"Wait, who's Squawks?" Tony interrupted already, hoping the story wasn't long. He just wanted the torture bits plus he had had enough of Afghan prisons to last him 3 life times.

"Coulson," Natasha answered simply. "Squawks was his nickname."

"That's not a very nice codename," Steve thought out loud.

"His codename was Suit, Squawks was my nickname for him, because he was always squawking in my ear about something," He ducked his head and gave a small smile. "Coulson was my handler for 8, almost 9 years." Clint confessed a look of what might have been genuine regret in his mostly dead eyes. Tony couldn't be sure though. Both of them were masters at manufacturing feelings and emotions, though she was much better at it. He was getting better at telling though. If he saw blatant emotions on either of their faces, it was probably a lie. Meeting either of their eyes normally was like looking into the eyes of a shark or a snake, a cold, blooded killer. At first he had thought assassins would be cool, now he sort of thought they were a lot scary and a lot messed up in the head. Sane people did not act like either of them.

"I see, so carry on," Tony leaned back against Pepper and prepared himself for what was probably going to be a rather dull story.

Afghanistan side of the boarder 2006.

"Hawkeye, the extraction team is 20 minutes out," Coulson spoke to his operative in the field.

"Copy that, 20 minutes and counting," Barton replied quietly, his voice sounding oddly hollow with the new style com device implanted between 2 of his molars and rusty from disuse. Phil wasn't surprised though, they had mostly maintained radio silence for the last 15 hours and he knew Barton wasn't going to make a move or a sound otherwise. Not when his job was to observe and then take out the guards when the extract team came.

That was why he had sent Hawkeye. There was no one better suited for this type of wet work. No one else that could set up 1000 meters from their targets and remain undetected for 32 hours while he watched their every move, their every pattern and gauged their every line of site so he could take them out. Hawkeye was weirdly efficient about these sorts of things and as deadly as his partner, Black Widow, who was currently pacing around behind him and hurling insults at him in Russian for deploying Clint without her. But really, this was a straight up forward spotter and cover fire mission, pure military, which Clint was, and she would have been of no use. No one needed to be charmed, they just needed to be dead.

"So Fury hired this new filly named Agent Hill. She brought homemade cookies from her mother, lemon chiffon," he took a bite and chewed loudly, "and tasty."

"You're killing me, Squawks, I haven't had shit to eat in over 30 hours other than SHIELD issued glucose and electrolyte supplement gel. Green, which I might add, tastes like when you puke back up lemonade. I would kill for a freakin' pizza."

"You kill at least 2 and I'll get you a pizza, 3 if you want toppings." Coulson joked, trying to keep Clint engaged.

"You throw in a hot shower and a warm drink and I'll kill the whole fucking camp. Why did I agree to this in the middle of January?"

"What's the matter, you sound cranky, did you miss your nap?" Phil taunted, though he knew it had been snowing and that Clint no doubt allowed himself to be covered in it to make himself look like his surroundings. Right now it was about 5 degrees and the poor guy was probably freezing his ass off.

"There's a death stalker scorpion half burrowed into my sleeve and it's been there since before the sun went down. I'm afraid it's thinking of moving in."

Phil laughed, "probably trying to steal your body heat, like the other one. You can just add it to your collection of scary, deadly arachnids that follow you around," his eyes cut to Natasha as she glared at him. He couldn't help the new dry feeling in his mouth at her look. That woman was scary. He often got the feeling that she tolerated him because Barton liked him. Her allegiance was to Clint, not SHIELD

"What's the matter, Squawks, did Tasha hear you?" Hawkeye teased right back.

"Yes, she did, and now she thinks your cheating on her. Which one of us do you think she'll go after, the messenger or the cheater?" He cut up, Romanov's jealous streak over Barton being a thing of legend around SHIELD. By her rules, he was not allowed to be partnered with, in close contact with, or basically be around other female agents. Other women were only tolerated if and only if it was directly involved with the mission. Otherwise it was hands off or risk losing them. If it had been Phil's call, he would have cut her lose as a PSYCHO but for some reason Barton seemed to see it as a sign of affection. He and Fury, along with some of the other agents had a running tally over which one of them was more touched in the head. Usually she won but every once in a while, Clint would pull ahead with something, like thinking that murderous jealousy was how one showed they cared. Oh well he was more than a bit of a masochist and she was quite a bit of a sadist and they were a good team so Phil kept his opinions to himself. At least he did most of the time.

"Very funny," Clint started, then scanned the area further east with his scope, "oh shit, we have a problem. A truck is coming in fast and there are soldiers on it, at least 20. How many men did you send?"

"Shit we only sent 10. How well armed?" Phil started yelling for satellite pictures and for someone to get Fury.

"To the teeth, abort, you're sending them into a killing field." Hawkeye stated, all joking gone from his voice.

There was a pause, "It's too late. We can't call them back."

"Fuck," Clint breathed.

"How many can you safely take out, Hawkeye?" Coulson asked, making sure to stress the safely. Snipers were some of the most dangerous people in the world but they relied on stealth and surprise, once they fired, especially multiple shots, they were exposed and either had to relocate or risk being sighted themselves. He needed to know how many could Clint take out before they could figure out where he was and go after him.

"Safely 4 maybe 5 but that won't be enough to save your guys or the hostages." Barton answered, not bragging but being completely realistic.

"How many unsafely?" Phil turned away from Natasha and asked, hating that he was thinking about sacrificing his favorite asset to protect 10 others.

"All 20 are in the courtyard, clear shots. I can get 12 before I have to reload." There was a pause then, "Your team will be here in less than 120 seconds, what's the call?" Phil shut his eyes weighing his options when Hawkeye spoke again, "there are women and children down there, at least 50 kids." And with that Coulson knew what Clint wanted, he wanted to take out as many as he could disregarding the fact that his location would become obvious.

"30 seconds to arrival, sir," the agent nearest him reminded him.

"Do what you need to do, Hawkeye." He turned and looked at Romanov wondering if she would stay at SHIELD if Barton was killed or more to the point, would she even bother to stay alive herself.

Coulson was used to Hawkeye's fights being over in less than 20 seconds but this one went on for 14 minutes. It might have been the 14 longest minutes of his life, listening to one of his best assets call out targets and take them down all the while, leaving himself open to attack. At 13 minutes, 21 seconds, Barton commented, "I've got Hajis coming up on me from behind," he sounded calm and oddly relaxed.

"You need to learn to stop calling them that, its racist and it marks you as having served in the US military," Coulson corrected him, always coaching to make him a better agent. It also gave him something to do.

"Sorry, there are 2 fine gentlemen cresting the hill behind me that I do believe intend to murder me." He exhales and fired again. To Coulson it sounded more like a low vibration than a shot. "Target 15 down," he intoned flatly.

"How many left?" Coulson asked, scanning feeds from different monitors. The extract team wasn't supposed to take down the whole camp, just free the hostage. They were close, there were 5 dead and only 2 guards between them and freedom.

"2 at the exit and the team and hostages are coming out hot. Can they take them?" Still so calm, he couldn't be more than seconds away from death or capture but you could not hear a hint of it in his voice. He was as calm as his partner was high strung.

Phil broadened the channel and asked, "Gunnarssen, sit rep?"

"We're coming out, sir, no amo left and several wounded. Any help will be appreciated."

"Don't worry, Gunnarssen, I've got your six," Hawkeye reassured then fired. "Target one down," fired again and, "target two down." Coulson watched the extract team evac the survivors, quickly loading them into waiting trucks.

"Good job men, Hawkeye, fall back to rendezvous," Coulson smiled to himself.

"Do you mind, I really don't like that feeling," he heard Barton say out of no where.

"What feeling?"

"Of a rifle pressed to the base of my brain." He breathed and Coulson felt himself go weak. Barton was captured. He had left himself open for too long so he could take out the guards.

TBC


	2. Don't Scream

Part 2: Don't Scream

Clint felt the rifle barrel pressing against the back of his neck and pondered. He couldn't use his sniper rifle against them, they were too close. He had a specialty Makarov pistol on his leg, with a holster that allowed him to pull it out and down at a certain angle and chamber a round before even drawing. But the pistol was on his thigh and his hands were on his rifle and their rifle on at the back of his neck. So he was going to have to wait till they had him standing to make his move.

They yelled at him to put his hands on his head, which he did, after shaking the scorpion out and grabbing a hand full of dirt. They removed his tarp, letting in the full night chill, causing an involuntary shiver. He hoped these guys were dumb and wouldn't check him for weapons but no such luck. They took his Makarov, which sucked, it was a gift from Tasha off a Spetsnaz she killed. It was his favorite side arm. They also took the two knives on his belt the two on the outside of his boots but not the inside, his extra rounds, his utility knife, and his SHIELD issued glucose and electrolyte replacement gel. It was all green so they were welcome to it.

They hauled him up and he fought against a wave of dizziness from the quick change in position. He had been lying in that exact spot in the exact same position for 32 hours. As soon as they had him up, they immediately shined a halogen flashlight in his face. Pure white light to destroy his night vision and it worked. It also felt like a leprechaun had wailed him in the retnas. His eyes immediately teared up and his vision went double. He tried to blink away the cloudiness but all he could see were giant white blobs with tails on them. But this was his best chance, he threw the dirt he had picked up in the face of the one to his right and took down the one to his left, spinning and sprinting down the cliff side before they could recover. He was sure footed most of the time, but his muscles were sore and cold plus he literally couldn't see anything but white blobs. It didn't stop him though, he ran until he felt a burning pain rip through his right thigh and spray blood on the snow ahead of him.

He tried to get up but the limb would barely support his weight, much less allow him to run. He tried though, gritting his teeth against the pain and pressing it as he limped along, leaving a trail a cub scout could follow. "Damn it," he hissed as he tripped gain.

"Hawkeye, what is it, what's going on?" Coulson fretted.

"Shot," he grunted and pushed himself back up.

"You were shot? Where, how bad, how far away are you from the rendezvous?"

"Yes, I was hit, right thigh, a through and through, missed the artery," he panted.

"How can you be sure?" Phil asked, trying to keep his agent focused, trying to keep him moving towards safety.

"Because if it hit the artery, we wouldn't be having this conversation because I would be flopping on the ground about to bleed out." He snarked, starting to feel light headed. Thirty-two hours with no real food, minimal water, and now blood loss did not make for optimal escape form.

"Point taken, pick up zone, how far?" Coulson insisted as Clint looked behind him and saw that his pursuers were so close there was no way they could miss.

"Too far," he said and raised his hands behind his head and tried to drop onto his knees but it was more like a graceless flop than anything. They came up behind him and shoved his face into the ground and stomped on his bleeding thigh. It sort of hurt. They bound his hand behind him in a knot that he would have been able to get out of when he was 13 and started to drag him back to their base. But what really annoyed him was that one of those smelly ass, mother fuckers was swinging his sniper rifle around like it was a toy. That rifle was a work of art. It had a custom made telescopic scope with interchangeable lenses that could be switched out for distances between 100-1000 meters, 1000-2000, meters, 2000-3000, meters in addition to night vision. Along with it were interchangeable custom crosshairs that could a changed to account for wind with a different deflection scale and different options for bullet drop depending on his relative elevation verses his target. He had had the techs at SHIELD make it for him. Then there was the gun itself, a modified M24 sniper with custom, double grooved, titanium barrel that had almost no change in between a cold fire and warm fire and an increased spin for less drop. The one time he had let Nat try and use it, she said it was the single most complicated gun she had ever seen and they should just go strangle the guy. She just didn't understand, that thing was sniper's wet dream and this mook was manhandling it like it was a club. God, it was like watching another man have sex with your wife. At least it wasn't his bow, he might not have been able to control himself then.

"Guess, I'm caught, huh?" he questioned them, more for Phil's benefit than theirs.

"Fuck," he heard Coulson breath into his ear and he couldn't help a smile.

"My sentiments exactly."

They dragged him back to their ruined base and he got to see firsthand the carnage he had caused. 17 bodies lined up with shots to the back of the head or the kill zone in the face. He wasn't sure whether to be proud or disgusted at the site of them. He settled for looking around for some way to escape. They threw him into a corner and put 2 guards on him. He could take the guards, no problem but then how did he get away, he couldn't run and there was only 2 vehicles here, both heavily guarded. He gave up and sank back to conserve his flagging energy.

He must have zoned out, blood loss will do that to you, because the next thing he noticed, someone was cutting his pant leg and he had his hands free and the man's throat in his hand, ready to snap his neck before he even remembered where he was. He heard two guns cock and he sadly recollected his situation. "Sorry," he mumbled, and released the man he head.

"Doctor, I doctor." The man told him, hands up like he was surrendering.

"Sorry, doc, you startled me," he smiled and shifted his leg so the man could see it better. He only moved it about 6 inches but it sent a massive wave of pain through the limb and he groaned to stop from screaming.

"What is it, agent, report." Coulson squawked at him.

"Leg hurts like a son of bitch," he groaned again as the doctor poured salt water over it to clean it and he seriously wondered if he was going to puke. "Hey, Squawks, what do you think the puke flavored SHIELD issued glucose and electrolyte replacement gel would taste like if you puked it back up?" he questioned. No one looked at him, assuming he was delirious. They had searched him but they had not found the small com device between his top, left, back teeth.

"I don't know, why are you about to find out?"

"Thinkin' about it," he joked as the doctor rolled him over so that he could see the entrance wound. "Surgery without morphine suck, aaah," he gasped as the doctor started to mildly debride around the wound to lessen the chance of infection. This wasn't his first trip to the rodeo, it was just the first time he was awake for it.

By the time the doctor was done, he was sure half his leg was missing and he really wanted to puke but instead he curled up and watched `the camp around him through lazy eyes. "How's it going, Hawkeye? I haven't heard you gasp in a while, you still breathing?" Phil questioned.

"I'm still breathing," he whispered, "There are 31 still left here, heavily armed. They are packing up for a move, taking weapons boxes with "Stark" written on them." He fed Phil as much info as he could.

"Stark, seriously, they have Stark weapons. We need to find you." Phil sounded almost panicked and he thought he might have heard Fury in the background. "Have they mentioned where they are going?"

"Don't know, my Pashto isn't that good and some are speaking Dari, they are the ones I can understand," he apologized, letting his eyes drift shut for a minute. He was exhausted. He had been up for nearly 36 hours.

"Ok, focus, what else do see, what else is there?" Phil pulled him back when he heard him fading.

"Bodies, dead bodies, um, weapons, men, and a TV camera. They were taking videos here."

"Good, can you pick up any ETA on when they will be leaving? I need to get some eyes in the sky to track them if we can't get to you before they bug out."

"No ETA mentioned that I could tell." He listened for a minute but nothing they said made sense to him. "You guys are going to come for me?" he asked, somewhat surprised. SHIELD didn't usually go out of its way to save agents that had been captured. If you got captured it was your own watch.

"Of course we are coming for you," he sounded annoyed. "Do you honestly think Romanov wouldn't come for you, especially after she knows you were two timing he with a scorpion?" he joked and Clint felt his lips tug up at the corners. Tash was something else.

He didn't have time to answer though, as he was yanked up and he bound. This knot was no better but he decided to play along. They gagged him, put a black hood over his face, and taped it around his neck. Then they threw him in the back of a transport truck like a sack of potatoes with 12 guards watching him. Well, guess SHIELD wouldn't get there in time.

He managed to work the gag out of his mouth enough that he could whisper, "Squawks, they are bugging out, now. 2, maybe 3 transport trucks carrying the men and weapons." They started to pull out and he felt the sun on his back. "What time is it here?" he asked.

"8:26 am," Phil answered, like he was counting down a clock or something.

"We're heading north, along the same path the truck came in from last night," he whispered. He knew if he could tell turns, times, and directions, he could give them a clue where they were heading. Of course calling out 'right turn' at 15 minutes didn't mean anything if he didn't know how fast they were going.

He called out the rest of the twists and turns and painfully bumpy roads until he was roughly dragged out of the back into another compound that appeared to be well stocked with food and weapons. "More Stark weapons," he breathed, hoping Phil caught it. He didn't have much time to find out, he was yanked into another room and strapped to a table. His flak jacket, outer shirt, boots, belt, and socks striped from him. The man doing so seemed shocked at the amount of secreted weapons he had on him. He might have been embarrassed but he was really more cold. Of course cold was better than the pain when they took a cane wand started whacking the bottom of his feet like cricket ball.

"Goddamn it that hurts," he grunted.

"What, what hurts, what are they doing to you?" Coulson sounded worried.

"Canining my feet. Guess they don't, fuck, don't want me going anywhere."

"Just take it easy and breath. We're going to find you. I promise. We'll get you out of there and I owe you pizza."

"You mean you'll get the Stark weapons out of here and take me with you if I'm still alive?" he teased. Joking was easier than dealing with the feeling of them beating bloody lines across the soles of his feet.

"Something like that," Coulson chuckled. "Just remember, no matter what roll with it. You just have to last till we get there. You did your job, soldier, now let us get you home."

"Ahh, fuck, I get it," he grunted when one of the man at his feet stopped and asked him what he had just said. "I said fuck Allah and fuck you too." He got a shot across the face from the cane for that, but to be fair, he kind of deserved it.

"What happened to rolling with it and surviving until we get there, Hawkeye?" Phil sounded pissed.

"Sorry," he apologized and spit blood from his mouth about the same time four more men came in and one placed a brown sack over his head.

There were several truths in Clint Barton's life that he had long ago given up questioning. First was that regardless of how nasty and snipey he frequently was to Phil Coulson, he actually really liked the son of bitch. Yes, he realized that SHIELD had been very careful about pairing them together to artfully create an epic case of Stockholm Syndrome but it didn't matter. He liked the guy.

In the beginning of his life, Clint learned what it meant o be down trodden. His father beat him, mercilessly, his mother turned a blind eye and in the end only his brother cared. His daddy was the Sheriff so it didn't do any good when nosey teachers or well meaning church goers noticed the constant bruises. He lived on a farm, farms were dangerous places for little boys. "No, ma'am I fell off my bike, I'm clumsy, I fell off a horse, I was playing the dogs, a feed sack fell on me." They all rolled of his tongue, because that was what he had been taught to say. But it didn't help at night when his father was drinking and his mother was crying, he hated it when she cried, and he learned to be quiet because if you were quiet, he couldn't find you, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream," a litany in his head. But sometimes being quiet wasn't enough, not when Barney was down and mom was crying in the kitchen and daddy was smelling like whiskey. Then the beating was bad and he lost his front teeth before they should have come out and the kids at school made fun of him. So he learned to hide in the hay loft, way up on the highest hay bale he could reach because Daddy didn't come up here. So he would hide in the very top of the barn, where there were pigeons and rats and he would stay as still and quiet as he could and keep thinking, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream." Sometimes he would spend hours, even days up there and no one would care. Only his brother, Barney, ever came to look for him, with warm hands and warm blue eyes. He would put his warm hand on the back of Clint's neck and say, "its ok, Clint. It's gonna be ok."

It all changed when he was nine and Barney was away at summer camp. He hid but daddy made him come in. Raging and screaming and threatening to kill his favorite dog, if he didn't show face, so he snuck out and bit his lip and kept thinking no matter what happens, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream." Daddy had been mad, and he had ended up with a broken arm. Mom had gotten a black eye for making daddy take him to the hospital to have it set. His father's lies about how it had happened had rolled off his tongue and Clint bit the inside of his cheek as they set the bone and repeated "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream." Mom had stayed with him when they cast it, but daddy had gone to the liquor store and in the car, drinking. Clint climbed in back and mom didn't bother to buckle him in, too busy being yelled at and smacked by daddy. He dozed on the long drive home, drugs he didn't know the name of making him groggy and queasy. Then there was the crash, the sound of metal twisting, the smell gasoline and the feel of being thrown through the window as the car somersaulted through the air. Then there was the sight of his mother, broken and twisted, her neck bones sticking out of her throat and her blood staining her blonde hair. No matter how much he called, she didn't look up. Then there was the look in daddy's eyes and the car caught fire and he burned, and Clint knelt a few feet away and smelled the roasting flesh and repeated, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream."

After the sirens and bright red fire trucks and him sitting as small and quiet as he could so no one noticed him; there were orphanages and foster homes. And sometimes they split him and Barney up and that was bad because then he was alone and no one cared. So he stayed quiet and found the highest place he could and hid, hid away from everyone and hid away from everything. But one of them men found him, he was nice. He smiled and took Clint to a baseball game, minor leagues but he didn't care. He had never seen anything like that before. And he started to relax, maybe this guy would look out for him, but when the man had him pressed up against a desk and his pants around his ankles, Clint knew better and he bit the inside of his lip until it bled and kept thinking, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream."

After that, he found better hiding places, even higher and higher where nobody looked, in the attic with the pigeons and the rats. He hid up there and he was quiet and no one found and no one looked at him, and no one bothered him and he practiced not screaming. Then Barney came back and found him. Barney was the only person he ever told about what the man did to him. His brother put his warm hand on the back of his neck and looked at him with warm eyes and said, "it's ok, Clint, it's gonna be ok," and he was stupid and believed him. But he never trusted "nice" again.

There were foster homes, some mean and some nice but it didn't matter because he didn't trust "nice" anymore and never would again. No matter where he was he would find his way into the attic and hide as high up as he could and be as quiet as he could so no one could fine him. But the fosters always gave him back, "he didn't fit in, he was weird, that boy needs a psychiatrist," was what they all said, then it was back to another orphanage and finding a new perch to hide in. Then he and Barney ended up back at the first orphanage with the "nice" man and Clint wouldn't come down from his nest. He even hid from Barney, which really pissed off is brother, enough that he even smacked him and Clint apologized and swallowed the scream that wanted to bubble up, instead he repeated, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream."

Barney came to him that night, he apologized too and said they were leaving, so they packed what they had and ran. It was easy to get out, Clint was good at moving around and not being seen. They ended up at a Carnival, stealing food from the trash. They were caught but Trickshot and Jacques took pity on them and let them stay there and work. So they traveled with the Circus, no home, just a cot behind the elephants that smelled like shit and where he could hear some of the acrobats turning tricks at night. He hid his head under the covers and reminded himself, "don't scream, don't scream, and don't scream." He would see one of the ladies crying sometimes and he would smile and tell them it would be ok because he hated seeing women cry.

It wasn't long though, before they found their way under the big top, Clint had a natural talent as a marksman and acrobat and Barney was showman. Clint did it for his brother but he hated being on stage, all those people looking at him, watching him, knowing where he was, making him talk. It made his heart race and his stomach turn over. They kept telling him it was stage fright and he pretended it was true but every time he stepped out there he had to remember, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream." Between shows, he hid at the top of the trapeze polls and watched below him. No one ever thought to look up.

Then when he was 16, there was the theft. Barney was all for it but he wasn't. They left him holding the bag and they left him for dead. His brother, the only person that had every cared about, the only one that had ever taken care of him, the only one that had every looked for him when he hid had turned against him. He was alone, abandoned, and in police custody. They locked him in a cell with other men, he hated it, hated being confined. You shouldn't put birds in cages, it isn't nice. His lawyer tried to help him but he didn't care, he didn't care about anything anymore.

He was in Texas, good old boy sheriffs and good old boy judges and they made him a good old boy offer after 10 months in prison. He could join the army or go to jail for 10 years. He would have killed the president to get out so he joined the army. Basic training was awful. Not the training itself, he excelled at that but the people, so many people and it was so loud and so bright and people wanted to talk to him and he had to lie about his age, he was only seventeen. He stayed quiet and eventually everyone left him alone, he found a way onto the roof and felt like he could breathe again and it was an old record in his head, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream." The squad leader was nice but he learned a long time ago not to trust "nice."

The army was good at spotting talent and it didn't take a genius to figure out that Clint had talent. He had top scores in everything and could bullseye better than their snipers so they put him through sniper school and Airborne school and he excelled but it was just another group of loud people that were too close and too nosey and he ran away from them. He found his nest and he hid there and he was much less unhappy when he was above it all, looking down. He graduated with some of the highest scores ever at Ft Benning on Sept 1, 2001. Three weeks later he was in the Middle East fighting for his life. It was even louder and brighter, and no matter how hard he tried, he got attached to the men he worked with but they died, one by one, blown up, shot, killed in action, sent away on a section 8. All gone and he was alone and when he held the last one's hand as he bled out from car bomb, he squeezed his eyes shut and vowed, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream."

Two tours of duty and they recommended him for Delta Force. He accepted because he was beyond caring at that point. What little bit of life and caring that had been instilled in him at the beginning of his army training was gone now, washed away under sand storms and sniper fire. The training was still a cake walk and he still got top marks. He liked this work better though. He was a sniper almost full time now so he got to be above the shit rather than in it. Forty nine missions complete and 365 days later he was picked up at the airport in Atlanta, GA by men in black suites flashing badges for some agency with a long ass name. Used to following orders he followed and found out he had been reassigned to SHIELD. He liked the base because there were cat walks and rafters. He found so many places to hide he was like a kid in a candy store. The training was actually hard this time but he still got top marks. The instructors were fair but hard and he was introduced to his handler, a guy named Phil Coulson with warm hands and warm, blue eyes.

Phil Coulson wasn't nice, so Clint didn't immediately put his guard up any more than usual around him. In fact, he was caustic and cold, which suited Clint just fine. Eleven missions/assassinations, down and all was well. On the twelfth, he had to kill a woman in front of her daughter. He didn't hesitate, he reminded himself "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream," and pulled the trigger. After they returned, he went to his highest nest, on the ledge that over hung the roof and watched the people below him, biting his cheek and trying not to scream. Coulson found him and sat beside him, just looking out but clearly not comfortable being up this high, on ledge with no railing. Clint was surprised anyone came and looked for him. No one had looked for him since Barney. Phil turned to him and put his warm hand on the back of Clint's neck and looked at him with his warm blue eyes and said, "it's ok, Barton, it's going to be ok. I'll make sure you don't get one like this again, at least not for a good, long while." Clint wanted to scream, especially when he felt something in his chest that had been tight for so long start to loosen. Someone had come to look for him, someone had tried to make him feel better, someone cared about him. Phil stood and held his hand out to Clint, "come on, I'm going to take you to this place called Ashombes in my home town that has the best pies anywhere in the world," He stared at the hand for a minute, not understanding what Coulson was offering, but then he took it, standing up and it got a little easier not to scream.

He knew that SHIELD had been manipulating him by giving him a handler that would subconsciously remind him of the only person he had ever trusted, his brother Barney, but he didn't care. Phil Coulson wasn't really anything like his brother and that was fine because Barney had abandoned him and he had a feeling that Phil wouldn't do that.

The second truth, was that no matter what, he did not regret saving Natasha. He had read her dossier, they said she was a rabid dog that needed to be put down. He was sure they said the same about him but in the end he couldn't do it.

They met in Dubai, of all places. He had been sent to neutralize her, as they put it. He had passed her in the lobby and watched, when she hadn't known she was being watched. She looked tired, he knew he did too. But it was her eyes they were stilling his fingers right now. When he had met her eyes and smiled at her, he saw the same gnawing emptiness in her that he saw in the mirror every day. He could hear the tape that played in her head, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream." He knew he couldn't kill her because that would be hypocritical not to mention vaguely suicidal and weren't all the shrinks always telling him he needed to try and rid himself of those nagging suicidal thoughts. He couldn't kill her because she was him without the Phil Coulson to care about her.

So when she was attacked, he took out her attackers for her and signaled for her to come to his position. She came, but with heat and they fought. They both ended up pointing guns at each other. She had looked him up and down, "you must be Hawkeye?" She questioned.

"How did you know?" He returned.

"We have files on you, and you are the only marksman that would have been able to make those shots. I am impressed if confused. Why would a SHIELD agent be trying to save me?"

"I was sent to kill you," he answered, "but I couldn't."

"Can't kill a woman," she smiled and met his eyes, her pink tongue darting out of her lips, immediately switching from assassin to seductress.

"I can kill women, I just didn't want to kill you. Besides, those were your own agents trying to kill you, weren't they?"

"Da," she answered, tossing her wild, red hair, god she was beautiful but in the same way a painting was beautiful. "I was trying to leave the agency, they were sent to stop me, they aren't the first and they won't be the last." She was starting to warm up to him because he wasn't "nice" and she didn't trust "nice."

"I can help you," he jumped in, "I'm going to lower my gun, please don't shoot me." He lowered his gun and took a deep breath and tried to ignore Phil squawking in his ear about what the hell he was thinking, shoot the bitch. "What if you came to work for SHIELD?"

She snorted and didn't lower her gun. It took him two hours to convince her and by then even Fury was in his ear yelling but it didn't matter he had to save her. After everything he had done, all the lives he had taken or failed to protect, he had to save one. Oh when they got back Coulson was livid and Fury tore him a new one but it all worked out and when she asked him years later, as they sat huddled together for warm on a roof in Berlin both of them slowly bleeding out and waiting for help, why he saved her. He finally told her the truth, "because you're me," and she smiled at him in understanding and applied a little more pressure to the gunshot wound on his side.

The final truth was, that he HATED the Middle East. Everything about the place; from the heat, to sound of Adhan blaring 5 freakin' times a day, to the smell of their food. Hated it, every fucking thing about set his teeth on edge. Coulson kept telling him to get over it because it made him sound racist and reminded him it marked him as US military but he just couldn't help it. He didn't have a problem with people from the Middle East, it was just being here that made him jumpier than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He spent 3 years in that god forsaken shit hole and never wanted to go back. It was nothing but a constant torrent of blood, bright sun light, and loud gun fire. "Blow up that building, troop," "Sir, yes sir." "Kill those people," "sir, yes sir." "Blow up that school," "there are civilians, children, sir." "You have your orders soldier," "Sir, yes sir." And he had killed and killed, and killed. He had watched people he knew dying around him and it made him numb. So numb he would stand on the ledges above the buildings and see how far forward he could tip without falling and he didn't care if he fell. He never did though, he always caught himself even if he didn't want to.

But that hatred brought him back to the present predicament, which was a spice sack that smelled like the nasty fucking Middle East stuck over his face making him want to spew up his SHIELD issued glucose and electrolyte replacement gel. His hands, feet, legs, and chest all strapped to a table. The bullet wound in his leg throbbed and so did his feet but he blocked it out and listened for what was going on around him. They were talking, Pashto, which wasn't his best language but he could pick up some of it. They wanted to know who he worked for, was he US or UK military, ect. He also heard the sloshing of water and put that together with the sack on his head and tried to brace himself.

"Fuck me," he whispered, knowing his com would pick it up but not caring.

"What is it, Hawkeye," came Coulson's reply.

"They want me to take a bath," he mumbled. That was his last coherent message before he was tipped upside down, which just made his every present dizziness worse, and tortured.

He knew what was coming, he had been taught all about it, even had it done to him once in SERE training but this was different. He did not assume that these people would not kill him and they were yelling questions at him, too fast for him to translate, while they slowly poured water over his face. It went up his nose, down his throat, along the top of his mouth, making him gag and he fought to stay in control and not panic. He reminded himself. "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream." And he was fine until some of it made its way down the wrong tube and hit his epiglottis causing his laryngospasm reflex to kick in, basically closing off the entrance to his lungs. He knew conceptually this could happen but the concept did nothing to prepare for practically being strapped down and unable to breath even if he wanted to.

He felt panic creep around the corners of his mind as Coulson squawked into is ear asking for a sit rep. All he could do was gnash his teeth but Phil seemed to figure it out. "It's ok, Hawkeye, it's going to be ok. Just relax. It's a reflex but it will loosen up in a minute and you can hold your breath for four minutes. So count." Phil told him, calmly and smoothly, drawing his attention away from the panic. "Count with me, one, two, three," it went till they reached 248 and his vision had greyed out. Finally the spasm passed and he could inhale again, choking and sputtering against the wet cloth that had turned into a gag.

Fifty one minutes of that, they finally let him up. He coughed and gagged and wondered how long it would take for SHIELD to find him, if they even bothered. It wasn't over yet though, they dragged his sopping wet self to another room and chained him to a heavy chair that was bolted to the ground. He was cold and felt like he couldn't catch his breath that was when they pulled out brash knuckles and started working him over. He was pretty sure he felt his jaw break and a rib or two, but he grit his teeth and remembered, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream."

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Phil sat slumped in front of one of the screens, the one that was flashing through satellite pictures trying to find where these people had taken their missing agent. He kept playing it over and over in his head, even though it was all recorded. "Right turn, 15 minutes straight, Left curve, bumpy road with twists, 30 minutes of bumpy road, left turn, quick right." Those were all the directions Clint could figure out from however they had him bound. It wasn't much to go on but they were working all the angles they could get.

Romanov sat beside him, trying her own contacts to see if anyone knew another base. She was having as little luck as he was. That was when they heard Clint say, "fuck me," then the fun started. They couldn't hear all of it, but they could hear the water, his coughing and gasping, then nothing, just him grinding his teeth and Natasha paled, looking as helpless as he felt. But he did the best thing he could, he talked to Hawkeye tried to keep him calm and prayed the spasm he guessed was happening would relax before his friend and best asset died from a dry drowning in a country he hated, on a mission Phil guilted him into taking.

He thought it couldn't get any worse but after 50 or so minutes of that, they started in on the beatings. They could hear the grunts and impact of the hits and after awhile, they could hear Clint quietly repeating to himself, "don't scream, don't scream, don't scream." Phil felt like throwing up the massive amounts of coffee he had been drinking. He looked over and saw something he never wanted to see and would remember to his dying die, Black Widow had tears in her eyes, that were slowing working their way down her pale cheeks. She was crying for her partner, her lover, her other half. He threw caution to wind and reached over and grabbed her hand, as much for his own support as for hers. Phil Coulson was the oldest of 5 children. He had four sisters and in 2004 had adopted a little brother by the name of Clint Barton into his family and he was really afraid he was listening to him die.

"It's ok, Hawkeye," he forced through the lump in his throat, "scream if you need to, no one will judge you. Scream if it makes you feel better, just make sure to survive." He felt Natasha press her face into him and he wrapped his arm around her as her shoulders started to shake. They clung to each other as they listened to Clint being tortured. But to his credit he didn't scream, he barely made a sound; which somehow made it worse.

TBC


	3. I Can Take It

Part 3: I Can Take It

Natasha lasted till the end of the torture session till the only sounds he was making were faint huffs at the abuse before she felt bile rise in her throat and she sprinted away. She felt dizzy and off balance, like her equilibrium was ruined so she ran. Without thinking she ended up at Clint's quarters and let herself in. Long ago they both had their key cards programmed to open the other's doors, though she tended to invade his space far more than the reverse.

She ran to the bathroom, and splashed water on her tear streaked face, trying to regain her calm. It helped. She took a deep breath and forced her breathing and heart to slow and her muscles to relax. To distract herself, she looked around, though it was nothing she hadn't seen a million times. His bathroom was neat, clean, and barren of the luxury products she so adored. The only thing out of place was the towel she had carelessly thrown on the floor 2 days ago. That alone told her he wasn't here because he was a bit of a neat freak. She was lazy and a slob about things like that, while he was army tight about keeping his bunk. She smiled thinking of all the times he walked behind her picking up towels or articles of clothing because it annoyed him to see them out of place.

She strolled into the room itself. It was tiny, with a built in desk, a queen sized bed, and multiple gun and bow racks. It was much smaller than her quarters, but that made sense, he was a soldier and sniper, military intelligence. Espionage was a secondary skill. She opened his wardrobe and poked around. He didn't have much hanging in there, a few suits he wore for missions, a Gucci tux she had made him buy for when he had to play a high roller, and his military dress greens. She never saw him in those unless it was a funeral. She sometimes forgot that he was in the Army, and technically only on loan from the DOD. But then again, all of the military branch of SHIELD was like that.

All the rest of his clothes were tucked neatly into his footlocker. She knew she could pick the lock without even thinking but didn't bother. She wasn't looking for anything specific, until she looked on the back of his wardrobe door and saw his black jacket. It was a SHIELD issued, black, tactical jacket. All the military guys had them. There was nothing special or unique about it, except it was Clint's. She pulled it down and slipped it over her shoulders, immediately surrounded by his scent. How many times had she worn this thing? Too many missions where she had ended up in an evening gown or less in the bitter European cold and every time, he would swing his bow or his riffle off his shoulder, shrug out of his coat, and hand it to her. It was always warm from his body heat, heavy from the ammo and throwing knives tucked into the interior pockets, and smelled like him. Some missions, where he had been bound to a roof top for 3 days with no shower, it really smelled like him. She felt her lips tug upward at the thought.

She kicked off her shoes and crawled into his bed, wrapping the sheets around herself and shaking her bracelet free. Natasha had learned long ago that material possessions were fleeting and meaningless. Expensive dresses could be procured through rich men and nice houses could be burned. She enjoyed luxury but she never got attached to anything, not the way Barton was to bows and that stupid sniper rifle of his. She had only one possession that she held to her heart and cherished and it hung from her wrist. It was a purple heart medal she had made into a charm.

She didn't know if it was a testament to her skills, his skills, or dumb luck; but it took her nearly a year of working for SHIELD before she was wounded in action. It had been painful but not life threatening, some broken rips, a badly bruised hip, and a concussion but it had been enough to keep her sidelined in medical for a few days. She remembered waking up and Clint was beside her with his combat boots propped on the side of her bed, dozing. After the doctors had checked her out, he had smiled at her and handed her a small wooden box. She opened it to find a Purple Heart medal. He had explained that it was a medal rewarded to those wounded in service to their country. It wasn't for another 6 months, she found out that she wasn't even remotely eligible for a Purple Heart and it had actually been Clint's from when he was wounded in Iraq. She had tried to give it back to him but he refused to take it, mumbling something about having enough dangly things to decorate his uniform. The fact that he wanted her to have it so much made her want to keep it and eventually she grew to love it. She took it with her on every mission, like a good luck charm. It was a physical reminder of his trust in her and she tried not to read too much into the fact that he gave her his heart.

At the time, he had also given her a post it note with a very poorly drawn flower on it, explaining that there were no flower shops on the Heliarrier. After that, it had become a running joke with them, whenever the other was wounded, that they would draw a bouquet of flowers in place of the real thing. Once he had even wallpapered her room with post it note flowers and when she pulled them down, lined them up, and flipped through them, they made a cartoon of flower growing, a bee showing up, then the flower getting stepped on. Apparently he had been bored, while she was in surgery.

He always did goofy things like that. Most people around SHIELD gave a wide berth to the two top assassins so they never got to see Clint's personality or his sense of humor. She got to see it all the time though. He took great pleasure in making her laugh when they were on missions. From cracking jokes, to telling her long convoluted stories about his Uncle Cotton, who had a dog that was blind in one ear. When she had questioned it, his answer was, "Uncle Cotton drank a lot." She had laughed and ignored the fact that Uncle Cotton didn't exist, and wondered who he was actually talking about. She still remembered one mission when she had been very nervous about seducing the mark and he had been set up 2 buildings over on the roof. She was dressing in only her expensive perfume and her expensive lingerie and her hands shook at the idea of taking that disgusting man into her bed, even if it was just so he would be in front of the window so Hawkeye could take him out. He had noticed her nerves and said, "hey Black Widow, I can see your panties." For some reason it seemed like the funniest fucking thing she had ever heard and she had laughed till she cried. After the mark was dead, he had given her a knuckle bump and handed her his coat.

Years later, she had gotten him back, as they sat huddled on a rooftop in Berlin, both bleeding and waiting for extract. He had his callused hands clamped down on the knife wound in her thigh and her hands were busy trying to staunch the blood leaking out of a gunshot wound to the back of his side. He was clearly fading faster than her and she had asked him again why he had saved her. His answer made perfect sense and she had smiled at him, wanting to see him smile and had joke, "hey Hawkeye, I can see your spleen." He had laughed, which had turned into a pained groan but he had fallen further against her and she had wrapped her arms around him and they had waited together like lonely pups. She thought about that as she drifted to sleep

She woke a few hours later, feeling thirsty and with a headache. But most of all, disgusted with herself. Yes, she cared about Clint, and yes she was worried about him but she was the Black Widow for god's sake and the Black Widow did not sit around crying and wishing someone else would fix the problem. The Widow took things into her own hands. She showered, tied her hair up, and pulled on one of her extra uniforms she kept in his room; now every inch the professional. The single concession was to shrug back into his jacket. She then made her way back to the control room and back to an exhausted looking Coulson and started scanning satellite images. After, she fixed him a strong cup of coffee and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

Natasha divided her life into two periods, before Barton and after him. Before him, she had been a million different people with a million different lies swimming in her head. She didn't know what trust or security meant. She didn't know how to laugh or how to be honest. She only knew how to read people and to play them in return. Clint showed her that life didn't have to be that way, that there were people that you could trust, no matter what. People that would not let you down, people that would give their lives for you, and people that would always take care of you. She had taken that lesson to heart and she was going to find Clint and get him home because he trusted her and she would not let him down.

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Hawkeye felt pretty damn out of it by the time the beating was over and was praying that he would at least be able to pass out for awhile but no such luck. They blind folded him and took him to a cell that had steps in it. Once he was over the steps, they pushed him and he toppled into a FREEZING cold tub of water. He fought his natural instinct to gulp until his head broke the surface and really hoped they weren't going to water board him again because he didn't think he could take any more of that. Instead, someone yanked on his arms, which were now bound with heavy chains behind his back, and hauled him up onto a beam. His wounded leg did not want to support his weight, but he locked his knee, gritted his teeth and forced it to hold him. They then raised his bound arms up and clipped them into a set of chains suspended above him, forcing his shoulders into an unnatural angle and his head forward, right into the water. The only way to keep his face above water was to either tilt his head back or pull down on his arms. Either way it put huge amounts of stress on what he was sure were broken ribs. Plus the water was fucking cold. He had to concentrate not to shiver.

He waited a minute and listened, hearing no one else around and slowly and painfully worked his blind fold down to look around. He was in a room, alone with steel girders on the ceiling and concrete floors. This wasn't a cave like the last hide out. This was an actually building. But he wouldn't be able to see much more unless he found a way to right himself. So he took a deep breath, tightened his abs and back muscles and flipped (being a trained acrobat did have some advantages), pulling his hips and legs through his arms so he was now bound with them above his head rather than behind his back and above his head. It wasn't without pain though and he grunted and mumbled, "goddamn it, this fucking hurts," followed by a muffled scream when he realized that without his arms taking the brunt of the weigh, his feet and bullet ridden leg had to.

"There something you want to say to me, soldier?" Coulson asked.

"No, sir," he gasped, trying to get his mind around the pain. Trying to force his tired body to hang on just a little bit longer and take just a little more punishment. After he managed to gain control of his breathing and his mouth was full of blood from biting his lip in an attempt not to scream, he broke the silence. "Hey Squawks, what are wearing?" It was an old, worn joke with them that dated back to their early missions. It annoyed the crap out of Phil that he would maintain radio silence for so long so he agreed to check in once an hour. Coulson never made him promise that the info would be productive though. So Clint tended to come up with stupid, pointless things to say in the interest of letting Phil know he was still alive. 'What are you wearing,' being one of his most common.

He heard Squawks snort into the mic, "Black Widow's red, lacey panties, chaps, and a sombrero," he answered, deadpan stark mode fully engaged. Clint felt his lips twitch up.

"Why a sombrero?"

"I don't want my shoulders to get sunburned," was Phil's quick reply. The sound of his voice, making Clint feel more relaxed, as long as Phil could still joke, that meant there was hope.

"I'm in a building not a cave," he mumbled, in case the room was bugged. "High ceilings, like an old factory."

"Good, that's good, anything else?"

"Not yet, they have me tied up in a tank of really cold water," he had to fight even harder against shivering.

"How are you otherwise?" he could hear the concern in his handler's voice.

"You sound worried, don't tell me you're turning into a nice guy?" he joked.

"Not even close, Hawkeye, but your partner is freaking out and if you don't come back in one piece, I'm a dead man for sending you." Tasha, he hoped she wouldn't take this too hard but he knew she would. If it were reversed, he would be tearing his hair out to get to her and get her home safely. He trusted her to do the same.

"You might be right," he lost his footing and his leg buckled again, "damn it!" he snapped as pain whited out his vision for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to pass out but if he did, he would drown. They were trying to keep him awake, lower his guard so he would give them information. It wouldn't work, one because he was trained to resist and two, because he really didn't have anything to do with the troops that were bothering them so he didn't actually know anything.

"I want that intel on your condition, Hawkeye," Phil snapped.

"Yes, sir, my leg is fucked, I can't run can barely stand. I think they broke some ribs, maybe knocked out a few teeth and I'm cold, really cold." He shivered once before he could stop it.

"Good, Hawkeye, good but you need to stay awake, stay focused." Phil commanded, clearly reliving his days as a Marine. It was a good play, Clint knew he was fading and also knew the Army had heavily conditioned him to not ignore that tone of voice.

"Sir, yes, sir." He mumbled and tried to concentrate on staying awake.

"So did I ever tell you about this time when my squad was in Japan and we got arrested for breaking into a Shinto shrine?" Coulson started, trying to help Hawkeye stay awake, stay alert.

"No, Squawks, I haven't heard that story about your misspend youth," he answered and pulled on his wrists, resting his head against the chains, to try and take some pressure off his leg. Phil regaled him with stories about his time in the Marines, his childhood, and his early missions with SHIELD before Clint actually said anything. "Does she know how bad it is?" he needed to know.

He heard Coulson sigh, "yes, she does. She was here with me up until a few hours ago. She got pretty upset hearing you being tortured and left,"

"How bad is she taking it?"

"She left in tears and I haven't seen her since. Cameras show she went to your quarters," Phil was known outside of SHIELD for being a slippery fish but to his assets, he was always honest.

"Shit," Barton hung his head for a minutes, "Squawks, take care of her, for me." He needed to make sure if he didn't make it back that she wasn't alone. They promised each other that no matter what, they wouldn't be alone anymore.

"Black Widow can take care of herself, Hawkeye, and she would kick your ass for insinuating otherwise."

"I know," he tried to take a deep breath and started to cough, which hurt like a son of a bitch. Once he had his breath back he finished, "I don't mean physically take care of her. I mean make sure she isn't alone. If I don't make it back, make sure she has someone else to watch her back, someone else for her to trust."

He heard Phil swallow, probably coffee. The guy must be tired, it seemed like it had been awhile since he had been captured. "How about you stay alive until we find you and then you have her back. Face it, she doesn't trust anyone but you and probably never will." Clint just grunted at him and continued to listen as Phil talked himself hoarse.

Several hours later, by the time Clint's legs were blessedly numb from cold and his hands were numb from lack of circulation, his captors returned. They seemed annoyed that he had managed to change his position but they just yelled and hauled him out of the water. His legs were like icicles and refused to work so they dragged him like a sac of dirty laundry to a very bright room, where he was unceremoniously flopped onto his back under a bright light, with his arms tied down spread out from his body. It was similar to the table used to execute prisoners. On the bright side, they gave him a blanket. He pretended to be incoherent; all the while feeding Coulson details about weapons, men, and layout he had noticed when they failed to blind fold him for transport.

Once he was secure, a face came into view and asked him, "do you understand me," in Dari.

He shook his head yes and felt a needle slide into his arm, he bucked against, trying to knock it free. He hated trying to keep his head when he was sedated. He was already half out of it and this would make it harder. He felt his eye lids droop when a second needle poked him.

"What are giving me?" he slurred.

"Stay calm and in control, Hawkeye, remember just survive first, worry about information second. We'll do the rest," Coulson spoke to him, sounding tense and very far away.

"Flunitrazepam, to relax you and Dextroamphetamine to keep you alert enough to answer questions," the heavily bearded man spoke. His voice was smooth and deep, almost pleasant.

"You rufied me, outstanding," he giggled before he could stop himself. Oh fuck this stuff was strong. "At least I won't remember it, if you make me have sex with you."

"Do you understand the concept of not provoking someone, Hawkeye?" Coulson asked sounding gravely and very tired.

"So we will start simply, what is your name, American?" Beard face asked him, that was what he would call him, from now on, Beard face. Without his consent his lips curved up.

"Pierce, Captain Benjamin Pierce." Another old joke between him and Squawks. Coulson like to give him the alias of the Hawkeye from MASH.

"Well, Captain Pierce, why were you outside of our base, what were you and your men trying to accomplish?"

"To stop you," he answered open endedly.

"And why did you think a mere 10 men and you could stop us? We have famous Stark weapons to use against Pakistan and you arrogantly thought 11 could stop us? Where is the rest of the force?" So the human trafficking was just a way to raise money to buy weapons. Why was their intel for this region always so bad?

"You have a nice voice, would you read me a bed time story?" he snickered, feeling dizzy and nauseous as shit. The entire room was spinning like a roulette wheel and he was pretty sure if he had anything in his stomach, he would have puked.

"If you survive this, Hawkeye, I'm taking you to Vegas because you are clearly the luckiest son of a bitch that has ever walked the earth. Now focus and try not to make your situation any worse than it already is." Coulson complained at him, sounding mad.

"M'sorry, Squawks," he mumbled in English.

"You find yourself funny, don't you, Capt Pierce?" Beard face asked, stepping out of his line of sight.

"Not really, I'm just super high right now," he coughed, a long wracking cough that jarred his ribs and made his jaw hurt. And somehow, even though he hadn't eaten in hours, by the end he gagged and barely managed to turn his head and spew up bile and mucus on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and wished they would just let him go to sleep and another blanket would be nice. Crap, he hoped he hadn't said that out loud.

Beard face grabbed his eye lids and forced them open, "not so fast Capt Pierce. I want to know where the rest of your men are."

He took a gamble, hoping it worked, because right now he was pretty much beyond caring about anything other than warmth and sleep. "Waiting for you on your delivery route," he tried to look upset that he had let it slip.

"Which route, which one of them?" Beard face yelled, pressing his fist into his bullet wound.

"All of them," he yelled, his vision graying out. "The only one we don't have well covered is the mountain pass north east of Charsadda," he panted, hoping is gambit paid off. This was not his forte, but Natasha's, tricking people into feeding information. Clint's skills lie in being the invisible spy. Not just when he was hugging a roof top, but his ability to be a million different people without being anyone at all. He could be the guy you pass running in the park, the traveler behind you on the plane, the German tourist taking pictures, or the blue eyed bartender that mixes arsenic in your drink. He was never memorable, never stood out, and always forgotten. The best spies weren't like Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt. They weren't movie star beautiful; rather they were dull everymen because the one thing a spy didn't want was to be noticed. His strength was the exact opposite of Romanov's. She couldn't go anywhere and not command attention for her beauty and her grace, while Clint could slide into a room and be completely ignored. Her job was dazzle and trick, while his was to watch and calculate. They were both masters.

The pain lessened and Beard Faces leaned over him again, "see you have done well, thank you." There was a pause then Beard Face yelled to someone he couldn't see, "change the route, we'll go through the northern pass. Tell the men in Kabul to come north. We'll have to go 170 kilometers further east but we have the supplies," Gotcha mother fucker! He thought, then heard, "now take this thing back to his cell and chain his feet down. See how long he can stay awake and not drown." Well shit.

He was ripped off the table and dragged back to his cell as men scurried around him. They trussed him back up with his arms behind his back, suspended from the ceiling. But this time, they bound his feet to the bar he was balancing on. They covered his eyes again and left him. He forced his head up, trying to keep his face out of the water and called, "hey Squawks, they plan to take the Stark's weapon," he coughed, unconsciously ducking his head and inhaling a lung full of water. It set off a massive hacking fit that left him gasping and watching light burst dance around his eyes.

"What is it, Hawkeye?" Coulson sounded about 100 years old, which was fine because he felt about that old.

"They plan to use the Stark weapons to attack Pakistan. They are going to use the mountain roads in the north that lead to Charsadda. This base is 170 kilometers South West of the pass, North of Kabul and North West of the other base." He panted, trying to catch his breath. It was hard to breath with his chest muscles and back muscles pulled so tight. He could feel his lungs crackling making him want to cough.

"Good work, Hawkeye, just hang on, we'll be there soon."

"That's good, Squawks, cause I'm really tired," he slurred as his face dipped into the water making him jerk up.

"Come on, focus, how are doing?" Coulson asked him. It took a minute for the question to get through his drug and cold induced haze.

"I feel fucked up, why would people do this for fun?" he joked and felt his head dip down again, causing him to jerk up and cough. The cough made his entire torso seize in pain, from the over stretched muscles and broken ribs. "Ah, fuck, fuck that hurts," he gasped.

"What, what hurts, talk to me, soldier," Phil demanded.

"Chest, ribs," he managed to catch his breath. "They have me tied up with my arms behind my back, hanging from the ceiling. A less flexible person would be really unhappy," he mumbled, trying to roll his shoulders and loosen his muscles. "At least I'm not cold anymore," he tried to joke but it sounded pathetic even to him.

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Phil had been up all night, talking until he was hoarse trying to keep Barton awake. He had started off with Marine stories and fallen back to stories about when he was a kid. Clint never said anything one way or another, but Coulson always believed that he liked hearing about Phil's rather idealic childhood. So he told him about Halloween costumes, Thanksgiving suppers, and Christmas mornings. About going to Hershey Park to ride the coco bean ride and driving with his dad to Three Rivers to see the Steelers play.

By the time Natasha came back the next morning, poured into her suit and wearing Clint's coat, he was officially exhausted. He couldn't even fathom how Hawkeye must feel. The man hadn't had any sleep in 3 days. He had been worried about Romanov, after her rather emotional display the day before but she seemed all business. She handed him a cup of coffee, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and sat down to weed through satellite pictures. She was actually one step ahead of him, when Clint had finally given them a way to triangulate his location. Before he could give the order to start searching that area, she had a picture of the building on the screen.

"Hawkeye, we have a bead on you, just hang on, can you do that, soldier?" Coulson told him gently. He was worried, very worried. He couldn't hear Clint's teeth chattering in shivers but he could hear wracking coughs and occasional gurgles.

"I can take it," Barton panted.

"Good, good," he mumbled, clearing his throat to start giving orders but noticed that Natasha already had people scurrying around. He smiled to himself, that women's devotion to Clint was something else. At first, he had been livid that Hawkeye had disobeyed a direct order and saved her. Then he had been against letting them be partners, Barton had always worked best alone not to mention neither of them seemed super stable. He was worried that she would turn on Hawkeye and kill him or worse. After a few missions, he had to admit they were seamless together. Then when they had become lovers, he had nearly blown a gasket. One, it was dangerous; two, it was stupid; and three, she was a crazy person. But more personally, he worried about Barton's emotional state. The guy tended to be beyond a loner and it took him anywhere from weeks to years to warm up to people. She was a seductress, trained at being able to find the weak spot and worm her way in. Phil had been sure she was using him and that she couldn't have any feelings for him because seriously, what would a woman as beautiful and worldly as her, see in a plain jane soldier like Clint? Then there was her jealously, which was a frightening sight to behold. All those thoughts made him try and convince Barton to leave her, until he had found them in Berlin, curled together for warmth and holding the other's injuries. He had finally seen what they both knew, that they could never care about or trust someone else as much as the other because they understood each other in a way that no one else could. After that, he left it alone.

He listened to the chatter around him, running his hand over his stubbly face and tried not to groan that it would take another 9 hours to mobilize and reach them. He didn't know if Clint had that kind of time. He knew it was moronic of him to become so attached to his asset but he couldn't help it. Something about Barton's stand offish attitude towards, well everything, had read like a challenge to him. He had picked and scratched and annoyed until Clint let him in. But in the process, he had also let Hawkeye in and that was dangerous and scary because it might make him hesitate or not think clearly during a mission and Phil had to be able to think clearly or they were all dead. He had mentioned it to Clint once, and Clint had just smiled and said, "I trust you Squawks," and jumped out of the plane. Two months later, Phil took him home for Christmas and his mother had declared him and adopted son. He didn't think he had ever seen the assassin so uncomfortable as he had been sitting around the dinner table with Phil's 4 sisters grilling him.

"We are getting ready to mobilize, then we'll have travel time. Not too long now, Hawkeye," he crackled into the mic.

"Ok, I can take it, I can wait a while longer," Phil wasn't so sure, he sounded awful.

"So you remember that bartender in Toronto, the one with the bleached white stripes in her hair?" he threw out, he needed to keep his asset focused and alert.

"Was that Charlie?" Hawkeye coughed. It sounded wet and painful.

"No, Charlie was in Amsterdam," Coulson corrected.

"Was she the one with the dinosaur shaped birth mark on her thigh?" Clint tried again.

"No, she was in Panama."

Hawkeye breathed out a huff that could have been a laugh but ended in a cough, "I give, I can't keep track of all your conquests."

"You should have considered having some of your own before you hitched your wagon to a psycho hose-beast," he dead panned. Clint had been oddly reticent to get involved with any women even before Natasha. Phil wasn't sure if it was his natural shyness or if the psych report was right and it stemmed from some earlier abuse. Either way, he left chasing tail to Coulson.

"Nah, not my style, I'm more of a one woman kind of guy, and I'm not married." he corrected then stammered, "hey, Squawks, can you do me a favor?"

"What"

"Can you tell Tash, that I,"

Phil cut him off, "she's right here tell her yourself," and handed the mic over to her.

"Tell me, what Hawkeye?" she asked,

"That I think you have a great ass," he joked lamely. Coulson knew what his asset wanted to say but he wasn't going to let him do it. The L word was saved for times of immediate death for those too and Barton was NOT dying.

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Fuck Phil and his handing the mic to Tash, Clint couldn't bring himself to say anything other than a glib remark to her. What did he know about love anyway? His only exposure to it had been a drunken dad that beat him, a mother that ignored him, and a brother that left him for dead. Watching happy families at the Circus from his perch was the closest he got to real thing. Besides, what he and Nat had didn't need words; they both understood it and trusted it so he should keep his big mouth shut.

"That's nice, Hawkeye, yours isn't bad either," she answered him, making him smile slightly. She was in Black Widow mode and that made him feel better.

Before the smile fell from his face, the door opened and Beard Face came in. Now that the drugs were finally leaving his system, he realized how unimaginative Beard face was as a name but he decided to stick with it. "What are you smiling about?" Beard face questioned, and grabbed his hair. He chose not to answer, for once taking Phil's advice. "I need to know what armaments your men at the pass have. You will tell me or I will make you suffer."

"You are going to make me suffer anyway so why should I tell you?" Clint snapped, deciding Phil's advice was overrated. The problem was that earned his face a dunking in the water. He tried to hold his breath, but his lungs felt full and heavy plus the way he was hanging from his wrists that were behind his back, meant he couldn't take a deep breath because his chest muscles were constricted. He heard Phil yelling at him but he couldn't answer just yet.

Beard face finally let him up and he choked and sputtered, his lungs feeling like they were filled with burning stones. "Answer me or you will know a new meaning for pain," he shoved Clint's face back in the water again, for good measure but this time only for a short time. It didn't matter though, he was nearly gasping by the time his head was yanked back up. He felt dizzy and was seeing spots behind his eyes.

"I don't know," he stuttered, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. He was so tired and so cold, trying to catch a good idea was like catching fire flies. He needed to focus but his ears were ringing and he felt like he was about to pass out. This continued for another 20 minutes, or so Coulson informed him, Phil's squawk being the only thing keeping him from giving up, keeping him from losing it.

"Not good enough," Beard face dunked him again, and held him under again. He hadn't been able to catch his breath from the last 2 times and had almost no air in his lungs, he struggled, wondering if he could dislocate his shoulders in order to free himself. Beard face held him under past the PaCO2 and PaO2 threshold and he involuntarily gasped, sucking water down his throat and into his lungs. It was the worst feeling in the world, trying to breath when surrounded by water, the feel of it sliding down your lungs and your body's convulsive coughing to try and force it back out, even though there was no air to propel it and nowhere for it to go.

He felt his lips start to tingle and figured that he was probably about to die, when Beard face finally lifted him up. He weakly hacked trying to clear his lungs but they it felt like it did nothing to dislodge the icy water from chest. Beard face glared at him but eventually dropped his hair, clearly thinking there was nothing more he could get in his current state. His coughs turned into heaves as he vomited back up the water he had swallowed, all the while trying to keep his face out of the water.

He tried to catch his breath and still his dry heaving when Coulson interrupted him, "how are doing, Hawkeye?"

"I've been better," he whispered, unable to make his voice work.

"Not much longer now, we'll be there soon. Can you hang on for me?"

"I can take it," Hawkeye answered, and just kept repeating it like a mantra, waiting for Black Widow and Coulson to get there.

[{break}]

Even if Coulson hadn't been impressed with Romanov's other skills, which he was, he was completely impressed with her ability to get people moving. What should have taken nine hours to complete was deemed to be too long by her and she got it done in six. So now he was talking to a mostly delirious Hawkeye as they flew to his location.

The actual fight didn't take long, the men had been completely surprised and SHIELD's military branch were the best of the best, if that stupid 'GI Joe' initiative would quit sniping them anyway. Now Phil found himself trailing after Natasha as she charged through the compound, anyone or anything that got in her way was stopped with a double tap the to chest. She was clearly following the directions Hawkeye had relayed to them and she burst through the doors, shooting a tall man with a heavily bearded face, right between the eyes.

As they entered the room, the first thing that struck him, was the cold, there was no heating in there and it had to be near freezing. The second was his agent, dressed in only an undershirt and fatigue pants, no shoes. Clint was hung from the rafters, by his wrists, but they were behind him, forcing his face towards a huge drum of water that he was partially submerged in. He was stunned into immobility for a moment, but Black Widow wasn't and she shot past him, running to her partner.

It only took him a minute, but he soon joined her as they untied him and helped him out. They laid him down on the floor and she immediately took of the coat she was wearing and threw it over him, checking him over for injuries. There were several. Phil didn't know whether to be impressed or disgusted that she treated him as if he were any other agent. He could ponder on that later though, right now he was just glad that Barton was still alive.

"Hey, Squawks, you guys get the Stark weapons," he rasped, causing him to start coughing so hard Phil thought he might rattle apart. Romanov pulled him up to ease his breathing and allowed him to rest against her, her arms around him. She pet his hair and cooed to him as he tried to catch his breath. Ok, maybe he wasn't just any agent to her.

"Yeah, Hawk, we got them. Maybe we'll even bring you home too." He smiled and patted Barton's uninjured leg, as the medics arrived.

TBC


	4. I Love a Challenge

Part 4: I Love a Challenge

Coulson moved away when the paramedics arrived but Black Widow stayed close by, with her fingers in his hair. She whispered to him in Russian, too low for Phil to understand but it seemed to relax Clint. The medics soon declared that he looked awful but his most pressing issues were the gunshot, which was infected, dehydration, and his body temperature, which was moderately hypothermic. His O2 sats were low but they couldn't treat them here, so they slapped a mask over his face and told him to relax.

He was fine, until they tried to insert the main line to give him a shot of muscle relaxants to ease his shivering and the muscle spasms from the way he had been hanging. Barton bucked and fought for all he was worth, trying to prevent them from giving him drugs. The medics were doing their best to hold him down but it was hard to start an IV on a person that was putting up a remarkably good fight for someone so exhausted.

"Nnno, no more drugs, not gonna' tell you anything else," he slurred as he fought and Phil was pretty sure that Barton didn't even realize these were his own people. He could hear the desperation in Clint's voice, his fear that he would be questioned again, and not have the alertness to obfuscate his interrogators.

He was about to call for some men, who were packing up video cameras set around the base to come, to help hold down his struggling agent, just to end his rambling, when Natasha took his face in both her hands, moving directly in front of him. "Relax, Hawkeye, just relax. No one is going to hurt you, I'm here and I won't let anyone else get to you." She leaned down, pressing her forehead against his, their noses nearly touching, "let them help and I'll stay right here beside you." He met her eyes for a moment before closing his and giving a small nod. It was all the encouragement the medics needed before they started an IV and gave him sedatives, painkillers, and muscle relaxants to keep him comfortable for transport to a military hospital.

It took less than 30 seconds after the first shot for Barton to go limp, and the team had him moving within 2 minutes. It took another 45 for Black Widow to stop threatening the medics because they hadn't tried to warm him up yet. Phil finally had to intervene, which was almost more than his tired brain could handle, because she refused to listen no matter how many times they explained that the fact that he was hypothermic was probably the only reason he was still alive. Lower body temps mean constricted blood flow and lymphatic flow, which meant less bleeding and slower spread of infection. Phil gave up and ordered her to stay with Clint and, "keep her trap shut and let the med team do their jobs or he was taping her mouth shut." Apparently he was convincing enough because she backed down.

They opted to get him triaged in Iraq, then transported as soon as possible to Germany for better treatment. It took 18 exhausting hours of transport and surgeries, which Clint slept through, Coulson sucked down coffee through, and Natasha threatened anyone and everyone through. But eventually they were instilled in a private room in Ansbach and Clint was sleeping off the anesthesia from surgery. Coulson finally felt like he could relax. The doctors had patched up his thigh and drained the infection, pinned 2 of his ribs back together, and opted to go more minimal on the hair line fractures under his right eye and the left side of his jaw. What they were most concerned with were his lungs. He had sucked down a lot of water that wasn't particularly clean and was dealing with both bacterial and chemical pneumonitis in both lungs. Even now, he could hear the crackle in the man's breathing and it worried him. He supposed a case of pneumonia was a small price to pay for getting the Stark weapons, preventing a terrorist attack on Pakistan, busting up a human trafficking ring, and getting Barton back alive; so he would count it as a win.

He leaned his head back and let his tired eyes drift shut. He figured Natasha would wake him if anything happened. He actually found it a bit odd that she was sticking around. Though he no longer debated that there was a bond between the two of them, he debated that she was as attached to Barton as Barton was to her. Mainly because if she were hurt, Clint didn't leave her side for anything other than direct orders until she was up and about. Even then, he tended to fuss over her and make her homemade soup or bread and keep her company until she was 100%. She on the other hand would have someone call her to let her know of the outcome but would generally not bother to visit him beyond dropping off a picture of a flower. He never had understood that one.

But right now, she was resting her head against his hip and holding his hand, running her figures over the callused tips of his fingers. It was odd and odd made him worried. Of course he could ponder odd after he got some goddamn sleep. He propped his feet up on the side of the bed and immediately dropped off.

[{break}]

Clint woke up to the feeling of cold, dry air going down his throat, better than cold water any day. He could feel numerous blankets covering him but doing nothing to chase away the chill that seemed to have taken up residence in his bones. He was also aware of the cottony, floaty feeling of being doped up on pain killers, not one of his favs but considering he could feel his side, mouth, face, and leg aching, he guessed he should be happy. But most important he could feel Natasha's hand on his.

He and Tasha over the years, had come to develop and entire language based on touches. It was actually a necessity for their job, where they often couldn't speak openly or even act as if they knew each other. He knew the difference between a touch that say, "back off" and one that said, "I need help." He could read her fingers and discern when she was trying to get him into bed for sex or a cuddle or when she was trying to get him to make her feel better about something. But this touch was both giving and asking for reassurance. Even in his foggy state, it surprised him that she was here; she normally hated seeing him hurt and would stay away from him until he was better. He must have really scared her but he was glad she stayed because after so many hours concentrating on staying awake, the idea of being knocked out was terrifying.

He supposed the least he could do was give her some encouragement that she didn't have to worry about him anymore. He tightened his hand around hers and rubbed the pad of his thumb across the back of her knuckles.

"Clint," smiled at him. She looked tired but he noticed she was wearing his tactical jacket. She always stole that thing for some reason. No matter how many times he offered to get her one of her own, she still always took his.

"Hey, Tasha," he croaked and immediately started coughing. It sent spikes of pain through his side and jaw, making him dizzy. She was immediately beside him, with a basin for when he inevitably started gagging. She gave him some water and he fell back, panting shallowly, and feeling like there as a vice around his chest. He could also feel the weight of Squawks's eyes on him. You shouldn't technically be able to feel how heavy someone's stare is but you could feel Phil's.

"Sleeping beauty awakes, I see," Coulson asks him. He didn't think he had ever seen his handler look so disheveled. He had bags under his eyes; his clothes were dirty, and not a suit; and he looked like he hadn't shaved in 3 days.

"Sleeping beauty feels like he has been hit by a truck," he joked, trying not to give into the urge to cough again.

"No trucks, just 45 hours of off and on torture," Coulson answered him, rising from his seat to stand beside him.

"What's wrong with me, I feel like I can barely breathe," Tasha squeezed his hand a little and he tried to still the panic and not being able to take a deep breath.

"Pneumonia and a couple of badly busted ribs. The docs say you should be up and around in 6 weeks or so, if you take it easy." Well, that would explain the pain in his side and the crackling in his lungs. He didn't think taking it easy would be that hard of an order to follow because he felt like lifting his head might be beyond him right now.

"I see," he couldn't help it and gave into another coughing fit. After he managed to recover, at least slightly, "you guys should go find a hotel somewhere, you look tired." He didn't really want to be alone, but he knew he had caused them enough stress.

"I think I'll take you up on that, Barton," I'll see you in the morning to arrange for your transport back to the Helicarrier. Have a good night," he turned to leave and Clint grabbed his sleeve.

"Thanks, Squawks, for keeping me alive." He told him sincerely. He knew he wouldn't have made it without Phil's constant voice in his ear telling him to keep going. It would have been too hard, too painful without the reminder of who he would be leaving behind.

"Thank me by spending your recuperation helping me with paperwork," he smiled and walked out, leaving Tasha and him alone. He let go of her hand and patted the bed beside him and she crawled up. She gently rested her head on his shoulder, mindful of his broken ribs, and he buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the rosemary lavender scent he associated with safety. He gave up fighting against the pull of drugs, exhaustion, and under oxygenation and allowed himself to drift off shortly before she did.

[{break}]

Avenger's Tower present day.

Clint ended his story to complete silence as everyone processed what he had said. Tony, especially seemed stunned, while Pepper wiped her eyes and held Tony's hand. Tony couldn't believe how calm Barton was, retelling something like that. He relayed the facts, with a few embellishments from Romanov, like he was talking about going to the movies. Maybe pathological compartmentalization and massive disassociation did have some good points.

Stark watched him, as he stared glassy eyed at the ceiling, still playing with Natasha's hair and still clearly high. For once he couldn't think of anything glib to say because in a way this was so much worse than what had happened to him, yet in other ways not nearly as bad. He wracked his brain for something to say, even if it was not remotely funny, but Barton beat him to the punch, snapping his head up and declaring, "I'm hungry."

"Me too," Romanov agreed and finally moved off his lap so he could stand. She then reached over and turned back on the movie, while he disappeared into the kitchen. Still, the only sound was the movie and the occasional clank of dishes.

45 minutes later he returned, balancing 2 plates, 2 sets of silverware, and 2 drinks, which he served to himself and Natasha. She greedily dug into the chicken Kiev, decrying its deliciousness and actually kissing his temple. Tony finally thought of something to say, and it involved his grotesque lack of manners, when Hawkeye again got the jump on him. How did that buffoon keep doing that?

"If you guys just sit there, yours are going to get cold," he told them flatly and went back to his own supper.

Tony jumped up and ran to the kitchen, to find 5 plates of food, expectedly prepared and plated, lined up on the center island. Holy shit! Barton had actually cooked for them and it looked awesome. He quickly grabbed two plates and took them back into the TV room as Bruce and Steve walked in to retrieve their own share. They all settled back down to enjoy the food, which tasted as good as it looked and if Tony wasn't mistaken he thought Barton might have actually blushed under the praise. He was quickly beginning to realize that Hawkeye hated being singled out for any reason, good or bad.

Afterwards, Bruce got to pick the next movie, which of course being a total geek he selected Aliens. It started just as Natasha returned from the kitchen with fresh ice packs for her shoulder and Clint's knee along with a throw pillow to put against his side so that his arm wouldn't rest on his wound. As they settled down to full stomachs and Barton now lying in Romanov's lap, Tony comment, "hey Romanov, please do filthy, demeaning things to that man tonight to thank him for that dinner."

"We aren't lovers," they both answered in unison, as he snuggled a further into her lap and she started to stroke his spiky hair.

"Then you have got to be the world's biggest cock tease, woman," he shot back, too much liquor making his tongue too loose.

"I'm gay, Stark," Barton shot back, no hint of joking.

"What, seriously?" Tony was beyond surprised at that.

"Come on, you didn't know. I like to cook, I'm a gymnast, and I wear purple for the love of god," Barton continued. He looked to Romanov but her face had a serene smile on it that gave him nothing.

"That can't be," Steve stuttered, blushing and looking extremely uncomfortable. "You're in the Army."

"They didn't ask, I didn't tell. Look this wasn't how I planned to come out to you guys but Tony forced it so can we please just drop it."

"Sure, Barton, whatever," Tony turned back to the movie, wondering if the spy was finally being honest or expertly lying.

After the first 30 minutes, Clint was asleep in Natasha's lap drooling on her as she made swirl patterns in his hair. When the movie was finished the two excused themselves back to his room, no longer even pretending they didn't share a bed. Tony and Pepper weren't far behind.

[{break}]

The feel of the ropes around his wrists sent spikes of terror through him as he fought against the men dragging him for questioning. No matter how hard he fought, they were stronger. He could feel the cold, stale air of the prison on the back of his neck as they pushed him, blind folded through the corridors, tripping and stumbling on uneven ground. He felt his knees impact with the frigid ground as they loudly yelled at him in a language he couldn't hope to understand. Then they grabbed his hair, and forced his face into the tub of water in front of him, holding him under till his lungs burned. He struggled and screamed but that only made icy water work its way down his throat, to clog his lungs and drown him.

Tony shot awake, biting back a scream and a choking cough, to find himself safely in New York. Pepper stirred to his side, but he shushed her, hoping he could hide the trembling of his voice. It had been a long time since he had had a dream that intense about his captivity. He knew sleep would be elusive tonight without liquor so he grabbed a pull over and went to his lab.

He tinkered with some project for all of 15 minutes before he turned to his computer and "procured" SHIELD's documents on Barton's stint in the Afghani prison. He was sickened to find full audio files of the conversations between Coulson and Barton, but also video's of the torture sessions filmed by his captors. With a sick fascination, he began to watch them, having Jarvis loop the sound so it matched.

He was both impressed and vaguely disturbed by the complete sense of calm that Barton met the entire thing. Not once did he see or hear a sense of panic or fear in the man's voice. He tried, but couldn't watch the sections with the water boarding. Frankly, it just hit too close to home. The beating was brutal, yet so clinical that he almost had to look away. He continued to watch, occasionally skipping long sections, where Barton was clearly going in and out of lucidity and all the while Coulson talking to him, keeping him sane. He felt like a voyeur, stealing a secret from someone, to hear the two friends tease each other. He seemed very different from the Barton that Tony knew, who outside of actual battles, tended to only respond in single syllables or snarky retorts.

"It was quite a bit different than your experience, I would imagine," Romanov startled him as she strolled into his lab, eating a brownie. He noticed it was now 4:30 am. He immediately went to stop the video in deference to her feelings but she cut him off. "I've seen them, you don't have to turn it off." She pulled out a chair, flipping it backwards to straddle the back. He could see the crease between her leg and her groin, with just a hint of bright pink underwear visible. "Both Clint and I have been trained to be able to stand watching the other one tortured. That way we can't be used against the other," she said simply.

"I see," he answered, not sure what to say. Even he realized he had probably crossed a line.

"But like a said, his captivity was different from yours, shorter but I believe you were more gently kept than him. But then again, he was a trained agent that knew how to handle himself and knew we were coming. You had no choice but to find your own way out. However; there was never a point where you were expendable, while he was from the minute he walked in. It's tough to compare though, so much of how well or badly someone takes torture is dependent on the person." She paused to let him think about that. "For example I think you wouldn't have survived the amount of physical abuse he went through. And afterwards, it was 3 and half months before he was cleared for active duty. He lost 18 pounds in 3 weeks from the pneumonia. He spent weeks barely being able to eat or sleep because he coughed so much he would literally start vomiting. He said it felt like suffocating." Tony looked away. "But on the flip side, I don't think he would have been able to sit for 3 months, locked up, he would have cracked."

"Why are you telling me this? You don't give out information for nothing," he questioned her.

She crossed her arms over the back of the chair and rested her chin on them, her relaxed pose making her seem more dangerous. "The same reason I tricked him into telling you that story."

"Which is?"

"I thought you were a genius?" She teased.

"I am but deciphering your motivations is like trying to reason with a cat. If it works, it's purely a coincidence."

She smiled, slightly more like a slight quirk of her lip that didn't touch her eyes. When she smiled at Barton was the only time her eyes sparkled for real. "To make you realize that you two share a bond," she started then sighed. "Our lives, lives away from the Avengers, are hard and brutal and dangerous. We never know from one job to the next if we'll come home and we both accept that. It's who we are but things have changed," she paused as if to gather her thoughts. "Coulson is gone and I need to make sure that Clint has someone else, in case I am killed. Before I didn't worry, I knew Squawks would get him through it and not let him pull so far into himself that he disappeared. But now there is no one and he's not bonding with you guys like he should. He's afraid of getting close because he might lose one of you."

"We were all hit hard by Phil's death," Tony started but she cut him.

"Not like he was. Coulson was like a big brother to him. He was the first person Clint ever trusted other than his own brother, who proved that trust was misplaced. Coulson always looked out for him for both of us. Losing Colson was devastating to him, especially knowing that his arrow started the whole thing. So please do not suppose that your interactions with Phil amount to the same thing Barton feels at losing his handler."

"What both of you feel?" Tony shot back, annoyed that his feelings were being diminished just because he hadn't know Phil as well. He was the least used to losing people in battle, other than maybe Banner.

"What both of us feel but that's the point. I lost the safety net of someone to take care of him if I die. I can't stand the idea of him completely alone with no one to trust. Neither of us wants to live that way again and we promised each other that it wouldn't be that way for a second time."

"You love him don't you?" Tony asked, thinking maybe Pepper was right. She had been the first one to suspect there was more than just a partnership between the two.

"Love is for children and fools. What Clint and I have goes beyond mere romantic notions." She defended.

"So if I sniffed your crotch I wouldn't smell him on you?" Tony taunted, feeling angry and scared for no reason and very drunk.

"If you sniffed my crotch and would break your nose so badly you would never smell again."

"Because you aren't lovers; because he's gay?"

She sighed again and ran her fingers through her hair. "No Tony, he isn't gay and if you are asking if there is a sexual aspect to our relationship, the answer is yes but it is not the most important part of our relationship. He is the only man I have ever taken into my bed for comfort, companionship, or just plain fun and I am the only woman he has allowed to stay in his bed past the physical act. We are the only people left that the other one trusts implicitly."

"Why did he lie? That is no way to build team unity."

"Because we are both private people and it's no one's business but our own. In case you haven't noticed, he is slightly introverted and Clint, not Hawkeye or Agent Barton, but Clint is actually very shy. New people make him nervous and being nervous makes him defensive."

"So he isn't a standoffish ass, he's actually a shy, wounded, little puppy that needs to be loved?" Tony taunted, wondering what she was getting at.

"Not even close. He is a standoffish ass by nature and nurture and nothing is likely to ever change that. Just like there is little chance of you every not being a conceited bastard." She countered; looking a bit annoyed, then smoothed her expression over. "But none of that is the point, Tony. The point is I need to make sure he has a support net if something happens to me. I need to know he will be taken care of and I want you to be that person for him."

Tony snorted, "why me, I think Cap would be a better choice. He's much nicer and they both have that whole military bromance thing."

"Steve is too nice, Clint respects him but he'll never trust him. That level of genuine kindness sets off all sorts of alarm bells for him. Besides, I know he has had this talk about me with Steve. It makes sense, he is the most like Clint with the Army back ground, fair skin, eyes, and hair, and the nice guy syndrome; even if Clint's is buried a lot deeper." 'Much deeper,' Tony thought but held his tongue.

"I had originally thought Banner would be the best choice. He's quiet and calm like Clint but deep down, Banner is almost as much of an introvert as Barton plus, he just isn't really in a position to help someone through something like a death. I briefly thought about Pepper but decided against it."

"What's wrong with Pepper?" He asked, vaguely insulted on his girlfriend's behalf.

"He would eat her alive plus, she is so not his type. Too skinny, no ass, and weak willed. She would hold no draw for him."

"Is that his opinion or your jealousy?"

"Both. I will admit the thought of him with another woman is not my favorite but regardless he wouldn't go for Pepper," she answered then continued. "That leaves you and in a way, you're a good choice. You are sarcastic and snippy just like Phil was. In the end, you are my only choice," she finished, staring him in the eyes, making him nervous.

"And no one at SHIELD can do it?"

"I think you forget how high ranked we both are. With Coulson gone, we both report directly to Fury. Not to mention, Clint is on the Military side of the house and they still maintain rank and discipline like the rest of the Service so he only has a group of about 6 people of similar rank that he could be friends with and most of them are afraid of him. Also, I would be worried that if I am killed on a SHIELD assignment, he might blame them and close himself off even more."

"So why are you so worried about this now, Natasha, are you going on some super dangerous mission?" he was almost afraid of her answer.

"I'm always worried about it. Clint means everything to me and I would do anything for him, including asking you to befriend him."

"I've saved your life how many times but I don't have the level of devotion? What gives, do I have to cook for you and call you pet names?" He sneered at her, more uncomfortable than he had been in a long time. He never fancied himself the type of person that would support someone else. He was the one others supported.

"It's not just about having saved my life, Stark," she snapped then visibly relaxed herself. "If that was all it was, then we would have been even years ago but it's much more than that. He showed me the difference between surviving and living. He gave me something to fight for instead of against. He gave me memories I could use to give me strength and he gave me a home to come back to," she stared him straight in the eyes. "And he was only able to do that because Phil Coulson showed him." Tony dropped his eyes first, knowing that he would always lose against her, unless he had his suit. "I'm not asking you to be his best friend, but I am asking you to make an effort to get past his walls. It's not going to be easy but I am asking you do to this favor for me." She looked at him again, catching his eyes and he thought he read sincerity but could have been wrong.

"I'll think about," she nodded her head and rose to leave but he stopped her, never one to back down from yanking on the tiger's tail. "You know there is a word in the English language for that feeling you have when someone's happiness is more important than your own. When you will lie for them, cheat for them, steal, and kill for them; though to be fair you do that for anyone. But someone that you would give your life for."

"Do you now?" she looked away from him.

"Yes, it's called 'love'."

"Don't be such a child, Tony." She told him and walked away, no doubt to return to Barton.

As Tony watched her leave, no sense in not enjoying the view, he thought back to how Coulson had described Natasha's significance to Clint. He was her valium, but she was his tether. She stopped him from flying away where no one could reach him. At first he thought that Phil meant literally flying away, as in leaving SHIELD but now he realized that it was metaphoric. She prevented Barton from pulling so far into himself that no one or nothing could touch him. Without her, Clint, the real Clint would be unreachable and the thought of that made Tony a little sad. So he would take up her challenge and befriend a man that might the single most standoffish person in recorded history.

[{break}]

It took Tony 3 days to manage to track down his quarry and he had to fly all the way to the Helicarrier. Apparently Barton's injuries had been deemed recovered enough to be put back on light duty, which meant that morning he was back at the range and back in the gym. Tony no longer actively avoided exercise but he just couldn't wrap his head around that level of training. He guessed that was why Barton was the best at what he did. It also made him twitch to think about Bruce's comment about what a person like Clint could do in an Iron Man suit. But that was beside the point.

Once Tony ascertained that Barton was not on the ranges and not in the gym, there was really only one other logical place to look for him before he had to resort to looking for the man's numerous perches, nests, and hidey holes; and that was to look in the armory. Luck was on Tony's side as he found his prey working on restringing a SCARY ass looking compound bow. He didn't want to even ponder what the draw weight was if the thing had 4 cams and the string looked like a cat's cradle. He stood in the doorway for a moment watching the man recalibrate the pulleys with expert precision, the way he did everything.

"Is there a reason you are just standing there, Stark?" he finally asked and Tony cursed under his breath. He thought he had managed to sneak up on him.

"Actually yes, I came to talk to you."

"So talk," Barton still hadn't looked at him.

"What are you working on?" Tony started, collecting his thoughts. He had a several pre rehearsed speeches but decided to discard them all. He worked better off the cuff anyway.

"A bow," Clint dead panned.

Ok, that was a stupid opener. "That's not your normal bow, why are you working on it?"

"You can't tell? I thought you used to be a weapons manufacturer," he snarked and Tony had to bite back a harsh comment. This was going to be even harder than he thought.

"True, but we specialized in cutting edge, post Stone Age weaponry. Bow and arrows were so 4000 b.c."

"Compound bows were invented in the 60s," he stood up and went to a box to rummage around for something. Tony reached out to run his fingers along to front of the bow and heard, "please don't touch that." He jerked his hand back as if burned.

"You never answered my question, why are you working on this one?"

"Because this is a heavier duty bow than the one I normally use. It has a 125 pound draw weight pre let-off," Tony did some quick calculations, assuming it was a carbon composite, of the potential energy that thing would store with that many pulleys and that high of a draw weight. Clint smiled at his stunned face, "it can shoot through a tank or more importantly, Kevlar." It made sense, even with the higher speed of a bullet; an arrow fired from this thing would have higher force and a sharper point for a higher Psi that would tear through a bullet proof vest. This wasn't a weapon for sport, it was a man stopper. "I answered your question, now answer mine, what do you want?"

"Why not just use a gun?" he spit out before he realized it.

"Who says I don't?" Barton dead panned and Tony realized how stupid his statement was, given that he knew Hawkeye carried at least a pistol on his leg everywhere he went. He had also seen the man use a sniper rifle with deadly effects. Hawkeye killed with a gun when he didn't want anyone to know who did it and with an arrow when he did. "Why are you here, Stark?"

"I actually wanted to talk to you about something," he decided to take the plunge but maybe doing it in a room full of weapons wasn't the best choice. "So I was thinking about that story you told us."

"So you broke into SHIELD's database and pulled up the videos?" Clint interrupted him.

"What makes you say that?" he started then figured it wasn't eve worth denying. "Yes, I did and it got me to thinking about my own stint behind enemy lines. It's something we have in common, that none of the other Avengers could understand." Barton's back was to him, not that it made a difference, his face wouldn't have been any easier to read. "I just think that because of that we should, I don't know, understand each other a little better." He hoped opting for sincere was a good choice.

"You know, Tony, I think you might be right," Barton said, back still to him but more interestingly, he had called him by his first name. Barton never called anyone but Natasha by their first name. He turned around and looked Tony in the eyes, "we should go out and get some coffee and discuss how awful it was and how it scared us for life. Maybe then we should hug it out and have a sob fest and eat a gallon of ice cream," he shot back sarcastically.

"That's not what I meant, I just," Tony started.

"I know what you meant but don't forget that about 1000 other soldiers share that experience with us so we are nothing special. Not to mention that wasn't the first, second, or last time I was captured and tortured. It was a job, I got the short end of the stick on that one, but it's over and I'm over it."

"How can you say that? I wasn't half as badly treated and I still have nightmares about it. I'm way smarter and better adjusted than you so you should be a wreck," Tony snapped, becoming defensive.

"Maybe I'm tougher than you," he smiled, rather unkindly and Tony scoffed. There was no way this nobody was tougher than him.

"Or maybe you are just better at denying it?"

"Clearly, must be why I'm so crippled by fear I can't leave the house without my costume," Barton snapped back and Tony moved his eyes to stare at the black oak leaves on his collar denoting his rank as a major without standing out against SHIELD's all black military uniforms. It never occurred to him before that Barton technically out ranked Rogers.

"Look I didn't come here to fight, I came here to try and," he stopped, no longer sure what he had been thinking. This was a mistake.

"You look. We are coworkers, not friends, Stark. The sooner you realize that the better." He got up again to start putting things away, the bow apparently restrung.

Tony walked up to it and braced his hand the way he had seen Hawkeye do it and pulled back with all his might. He managed to draw it back to a point where the cams kicked in and then it was not hard to hold there. He then waited till Clint turned around and purposely let go, dry firing the bow. All of the potential energy with no arrow to propel fed back into the cams, knocking them out of line and unstringing it. He didn't know much about bows but he did know you never dry fire them. Barton looked livid, the first genuine emotion he could truly say he read on his face. He counted it as a win and a tiny ding in the mammoth defensive walls he had. It was just a chip but it was enough for today.

"Sorry," Tony wasn't sorry at all.

"Get out, Stark."

Tony left and pondered where he could find some good research on how to tame a hawk, because it was going to be a challenge and Tony loved challenges.

-fin-

A/N 2: I want to thank everyone that reviewed, alerted, or fav-ed my story. The response was awesome. This has been such a welcoming fandom I may have to come play again!


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